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RURAL   LIFE; 


OB, 


jnrse  anb  Spotirjj  of  ijjt  SHoobs  anb  Jficlbs. 


BY 

HARRY   PENCILLER. 


PHILADELPHIA  : 
PUBLISHED     BY     G.    G.    EVANS, 

NO.  439    CHESTNUT    STREET. 
1859. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 
G  .    (J .    EVANS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


DEDICATORY   LETTER. 


MY  DEAR  FRANK  : 

When  you  have  seen  me  pencilling  on  my  tablets  in  tne 
shadowy  retreats  of  Hermit's  Dell,  and  amidst  scenes  more 
or  less  sequestered — when  you  have  seen  me  transcribing 
those  rough  sketchings  upon  the  pages  of  my  journal,  by 
the  light  of  our  study-lamp — you  have  often  expressed  a 
desire  to  look  over  my  shoulder  and  read  them. 

Henceforth,  some  of  them  are  yours  ;  and  you  will 
not  wonder  that  your  name  is  so  frequently  upon  them, 
when  you  remember  how,  in  scenes  of  both  joy  and  sorrow, 
in  wanderings  oft  glad,  oft  gloomy,  we  have  been  together. 

Though  these  desultory  pencillings  are  woven  in  some 
what  a  fanciful  web,  your  eye  can  trace  the  thread  that 
gleams  through  it — the  shining  thread  of  truth. 

You  know  how  we  have  loved  to  tread  alike  the  byways 
and  highways  of  life,  to  weep  sometimes  with  the  sad  and 
laugh  sometimes  with  the  gay  :  saying  with  the  good 


1254304 


IV  DEDICATION". 

Lavater — "  What  sublime  joys  do  we  drive  from  our  souls, 
when  we  banish  thence  the  sweet  feeling  of  human  brother 
hood,  which  is  its  most  precious  jewel." 

Knowing,  then,  our  kindred  sympathies,  as  also  your 
friend's  fancies  and  failings,  accept  my  frail  gift — too  frail 
to  bear  "  the  iron  verdict  of  the  world." 

That  at  Briar  Cliff,  your  beautiful  home,  long  years  of 
happiness  may  be  for  you  and  yours,  is  the  fervent  wish  of 
your  friend 

HARBY. 


UU1UL  LIFE  IN  AMERICA. 


I. 

OUR  simple  cottage  stands  upon  the  crest  of  a  hill 
whose  undulating  slopes,  dotted  with  noble  trees,  fall 
gradually  away  to  the  bank  of  the  river. 

Though  unpretending  in  architecture,  the  high 
peaked  roof  and  bracketed  gables  of  our  dwelling 
may  be  seen  from  points,  miles  away  in  the  adjacent 
country.  A  low  piazza,  whose  chief  beauty  is  in  the 
vines  which  clamber  up  its  pillars,  and  all  the  long 
summer  festoon  its  lattices  with  their  odorous  wreaths, 
completely  surrounds  it.  The  situation  is  one  not 
often  surpassed  for  rare  and  varied  beauty.  A  wide 
expanse  of  water,  bounded  within  view  by  verdure 
covered  shores,  fills  up  the  foreground  :  to  the  north 
are  ranges  of  hills  with  white  farm-houses  glistening 
on  their  sides,  and  behind  them  in  the  distance 

"  Rise  the  blue  mountains,  shapes  which  seem 
Like  wrecks  of  childhood's  sunny  dream." 

Southward  are  lofty  and   rugged  hills,  amidst  which 


6  RURAL     LIFE 

the  river  winds  from  our  view,  whilst  to  the  east,  a 
wide  section  of  farming  country  stretches  away  to  the 
distant  Housatonic. 

A  gravelled  and  winding  path,  whose  terminus  is 
invisible  from  the  house,  leads  to  a  graceful  knoll 
above  the  river  bank,  whereon  is  a  rustic  seat  over 
arched  by  trees,  which  parasite  creepers  have  mantled 
•with  dense  masses  of  verdure.  Here  the  eye  may 
take  in  at  a  glance,  river,  mountain,  stream,  cascade 
and  shadowy  glen,  nor  desire  a  view  more  lovely. 

Spring  with  its  balmy  airs  and  life-renewing  breezes 
has  fairly  come,  waking  from  their  long  sleep  the 
piping  frogs,  and  bringing  back  the  glad  blue-birds  from 
their  winter  quarters.  The  hills,  from  wrhose  southern 
slopes  the  snow  has  vanished,  already  look  green  and 
smiling :  the  river  is  free  from  ice,  and  the  stream 
which  courses  through  our  meadow  is  casting  over  the 
mill-dam  the  last  links  of  its  wintry  chain.  The  spray 
of  the  willows  by  the  brook  side  is  changing  its  golden 
hue,  and  the  red  buds  of  the  maple  are  almost  bursting 
into  leaf.  By  the  southern  piazza  the  sweet  briar  is 
already  green,  and  the  Virginia  creepers  are  about 
starting  on  their  summer  race.  Another  month  and 
Nature  will  look  her  loveliest ! 

It  is  our  first  experience  of  country  life,  but  already 
we  love  it,  and  the  weaning  from  city  associations  and 
excitements  has  been  accomplished  with  scarcely  a 


I  N     A  M  E  R  I  C  A  .  7 

sigh.  A  few  clays  since,  the  din  and  jostle  of  the  city- 
seemed  accompaniments  to  existence  not  easily  shaken 
off  or  forgotten  ;  but  now,  leaning  beside  half  hidden 
waters,  I  fancy  their  murmur  the  same  my  boyhood 
heard  and  loved,  nor  think  of  time's  interlapse.  Thus 
with  more  than  electric  speed  does  thought  flash  along 
the  chain  of  years  that  binds  the  Present  to  the  Past. 

There  was  just  such  a  stream  with  willow-fringed 
and  grassy  banks  that  gladdened  my  schoolday  loiter- 
ings,  and  with  companions  whose  "  brows  were  bright 
as  spring  or  morning,"  I  stole  many  an  hour  from  my 
books  to  catch  the  minnows  with  which  it  abounded, 
on  our  slily-made  pin-hooks  ;  and  there  was  a  mill 
too,  very  like  the  one  I  see  now,  only  more  dilapidated 
ind  lonely,  in  whose  eld  lofts  we  romped  and  played 
our  childish  games,  raising  such  a  dust  as  the  worn 
out  stones  never  did  when  they  were  in  their  prime. 

Of  that  gay  frolicking  band  there  are  very  few  I 
can  identify  now.  Some  have  become  "  fishers  of 
men  ;"  others  have  been  caught  by  wiles  more  potent 
than  minnow's  ever  knew ;  some  are  in  untimely 
graves,  and  others  like  me  are  idling  or  improving  the 
precious  hour.  But  my  reveries  have  made  me  prosy, 
and  I  must  not  pass  judgment !  we  know  not  how 
much  the  follies  and  fancies  of  youth  may  tend  to 
form  the  idiosyncrasies  of  after  years. 

A  short  distance  from  the  cottage  and  visible  from 


8  BURALLIFE 

one  of  its  gable  windows  there  is  a  cleft  amidst  the 
hills,  deep,  verdurous,  and  shadowy,  whence  the  dash 
and  murmur  of  lapsing  waters  come  to  us  on  the 
southern  breeze.  The  beauty  of  the  spot  can  only  be 
realized  by  nearer  and  frequent  vision.  The  sides  of 
the  hills  which  form  the  glen  are  covered  with  a  dense 
growth  of  spruce,  hemlock  and  cedar,  forming  as  it 
were  an  undergrowth  to  the  maples  and  chestnuts 
which  tower  above  them. 

A  stream,  whose  source  is  amidst  far-off  hills  comes 
babbling  over  its  pebbly  bed  till  it  widens  and  deepens 
into  a  pool  which  Naiads  might  have  envied  alike  for 
a  bath  and  mirror.  Thence  over  tiers  of  rocks  over 
hung  by  spreading  hemlocks,  the  waters  rush  in  mimic 
rapids  till  they  leap  in  foamy  cascatelles  the  wall  of 
roughly  piled  boulders,  which  form  the  upper  barrier 
of  the  glen.  Winding  through  a  narrow  strip  of  natu 
ral  meadow,  which  in  the  dryest  summer  is  always 
Iresh  and  green,  the  stream  soon  mingles  with  the  river. 

"  Sometimes  it  fell 

Among  the  moss,  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and  profound.     Now  on  the  polished  stones 
It  danced;  like  childhood  laughing  as  it  went: 
Then,  through  the  plain  in  tranquil  wanderings  crept, 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  its  quietness." 

We  have  called  this  glen  of  shadows,  Hermit's  Dell, 


IN     AMERICA.  9 

not  only  for  its  seclusion,  which  an  anchorite  might 
covet,  but  because  of  the  strange  and  lonely  woman 
whose  dwelling  is  upon  its  borders.     She  is  not  alto 
gether  solitary,  for  her  life  is  gladdened  by  the  sun 
shiny  presence  of  her  child,  a  boy  some  eight  years  old. 

Her  habitation  is  a  small  frame  cabin,  rudely  built, 
yet  far  from  comfortless,  and  the  indigenous  creepers, 
which  so  rankly  festoon  its  sides,  screen  many  a 
crevice  and  unsightly  time-stain.  A  noble  weeping 
elm  flings  it  boughs  over  the  cabin  roof,  making  a 
wide  spreading  shade  alike  grateful  and  protecting 
during  the  heats  of  summer. 

A  small  garden  patch,  watered  by  a  rivulet  and  cul 
tivated  by  her  own  hands,  affords  sufficient  sustenance 
of  its  kind  during  most  of  the  year.  In  the  winter 
season  she  sets  snares  for  the  rabbits  and  partridges 
which  abound  amidst  the  hills  and  thickets ;  these  are 
also  a  source  of  profit  to  her  when  the  season  is  pro 
pitious,  finding  ready  purchasers  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood. 

A  couple  of  goats,  which  obtain  a  good  subsistence 
in  their  wide  rovings,  afford  her  and  her  child  no  small 
degree  of  comfort  and  nourishment.  So,  with  contented 
spirit,  few  wants  and  not  many  household  cares,  the 
visible  life  of  our  mysterious  neighbor  is  not  an  irk 
some  one  :  though  she  may  have  sorrows  which  .her 
own  heart  alone  knoweth. 


10  RURAL     LIFE 

We  have  all  this  information  concerning  her  fr3m 
our  gardener  Teddy,  who  has  lived  hereabout  previous 
to  our  coming.  But  little  more  than  this  is  known  of 
her,  though  she  has  lived  in  her  present  dwelling  nearly 
four  years  :  rarely  leaving  home  except  to  make  need 
ful  and  occasional  visits  to  the  village  store,  two  miles 
distant.  She  is  generally  supposed  to  be  an  Italian, 
and  has  the  reputation  of  a  fate-teller.  We  have  heard 
that  occasional  parties  of  swains  and  maidens  visit  her 
on  moonlit  eves,  to  hear  their  destinies  read  from  a 
parchment  book,  and  sip  sometimes  a  love-potion  from 
her  mystic  bowl.  At  such  times,  the  echoes  of  the 
dell  reply  to  glad  voices  and  merry  laughter,  which 
seem  almost  a  profanation  of  its  quietude. 

Strolling  as  wre  often  do  near  the  domain  of  La 
Solitaire,  as  my  fair  cousin  Blanche  has  named  her,  a 
desire  to  know  her  history  more  intimately  possesses 
me,  and  I  am  only  waiting  a  fitting  opportunity  :  now 
we  can  only  speculate  concerning  her,  and  indulge 
strange  surmises  as  to  what  and  where  her  past  life 
has  been. 

Watching  her  the  other  day  from  a  distance,  busied 
in  some  womanly  avocation,  and  pausing  now  and  then 
to  caress  her  child,  who  was  weaving  beside  her  a  tiny 
osier  basket,  in  which  perhaps  to  gather  wild  berries 
when  the  summer  should  come,  I  thought — how 
varied  and  dissimilar  are  the  links  which  form  the 


IX     AMERICA.  11 

great  chain  of  human-kind  :  some  bright  and  lustrous, 
fresh  from  the  hand  of  their  Artisan,  God  ;  some,  worn 
and  fragile  from  too  much  attrition  with  their  fellows  ; 
others  unique  and  peculiar  ;  whilst  on  the  rest,  inaction 
and  age  gather  their  cankering  rust !  Some  such  idea 
had  Shelly,  perhaps,  when  he  wrote  so  beautifully, 

"  Life,  like  a  dome  of  many  colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments." 


12  RURAL     LIFE 


II. 

OUR  garden  lies  upon  the  southern  hill-side,  conveni 
ent  to  the  house,  and  from  its  favorable  exposure  must 
be  an  early  one.  A  wide  border  of  lilacs  and  syringas 
mingled  with  lesser  shrubs  and  plants,  divides  it  from 
the  lawn  and  serves  as  a  screen  to  veil  from  the  house 
our  prospective  cabbage  and  potato  patches,  which  are 
not  very  ornamental  appendages.  To  the  east  of  the 
garden  is  a  small  peach  orchard,  which  now  gives 
promise  of  an  abundant  crop,  notwithstanding  the  late 
April  frosts.  Skirting  the  orchard  is  a  long  range  of 
trellises,  covered  with  wide-spreading  grape  vines,  at 
which  Teddy  the  gardener  has  lately  been  busy  with 
his  pruning  knife  and  bass  strings.  They  look  dry  and 
lifeless  now,  those  interwoven  and  errant  branches ; 
but  soon  the  sweet  juices  coursing  through  them,  will 
swell  their  latent  buds,  the  germs  of  shoots,  whose 
pendant  clusters  the  September  sun  shall  warm  and 
ripen. 

As  I  came  out  on  the  piazza  before  breakfast  this 
morning,  to  snuff  the  pure  air,  I  perceived  the  fragrance 
of  freshly-turned  earth,  and  soon  descried  Teddy  in 
his  shirt  sleeves,  delving  away  in  the  garden  with 


IN     AMERICA.  IS 

might  and  main.  It  was  a  pleasant  sight  and  a 
"goodlye  smell"  too,  furnishing  a  provocation  to  my 
matinal  appetite  which  Lucullus  might  have  envied. 
Oh,  ye  denizens  of  the  city,  inhaling  an  atmosphere 
heavy  with  smoke  and  dust,  the  wear  and  tear  of  life, 
little  do  ye  know  the  blessedness  and  healthfulness  of 
our  rural  airs ! 

So  Teddy  dug  all  the  day,  and  I  raked  off  a  bed  for 
our  first  sowing  of  lettuce  and  peas,  which  may  escape 
the  occasional  night  frosts.  My  fair  cousin  Blanche 
is  out  on  the  lawn  near  by,  equipped  with  scissors  and 
cord,  clipping  off  the  dead  shoots  from  the  rose-bushes 
and  tying  up  their  refractory  branches  :  another  one 
still  is  sitting  in  the  sunshine  not  far  distant,  weaving 
airy  ladders  for  wild  creepers  to  climb  and  mantle  the 
dead  maple  that  stands  by  the  garden  gate.  Oh,  my 
Minnie,  thought  I,  true  to  your  woman  nature,  so  would 
you  veil  from  the  world,  as  your  loved  but  unsightly 
tree,  man's  often  failings  and  infirmities  !  By  and  by, 
the  lighter  tasks  of  my  companions  are  finished,  and 
they  stroll  towards  the  river  to  watch  the  fishermen 
draw  in  their  shad  nets,  the  first  they  have  set  this 
season.  But  on  the  porch  I  hear  the  patter  of  little 
feet  endeavoring  to  follow  the  two  well-known  forms 
that  are  disappearing  over  the  knoll;  this  however  is 
quickly  stopped  by  ever-watchful  Bridget,  who  is  not 
quite  ready  to  take  Birdie  his  daily  walk.  My  labors 


14  R  U  R  A  L     L  I  F  E 

arc  not  quite  over,  for  I  have  to  manufacture  a  ladder, 
that  I  may  attach  to  the  maple  that  cunning  device 
over  which  its  leafy  shroud  is  to  gather  and  thicken. 
Then  there  are  some  loose  pickets  wanting  a  nail  on 
the  garden  fence,  and  after  that,  there  are  letters  to 
be  written  for  the  city  mail,  and  so  the  morning  wears 
away. 

Then  comes  dinner,  and  after  it  an  hour's  reading 
for  the  sake  of  wholesome  digestion,  before  I  saddle 
old  Charley  to  ride  four  miles  to  the  post  office  ovei 
the  eastern  hills.  Blanche  proposes  I  should  send 
Teddy  to-day,  for  the  roads  are  not  settled  yet  and  I 
cannot  go  faster  than  a  walk  ;  but  I  divine  her  motive 
when  I  remember  that  it  is  Wednesday,  when  she 
never  fails  to  receive  a  very  suspicious-looking,  daintily- 
sealed  envelope,  containing  four  or  more  pages  of 
closely-written  lines  ;  but  pretending  not  to  fathom  her 
innocent  sophistry,  I  prefer  going  and  draw  my  infe 
rence  from  the  sequel.  When  I  emerge  from  the 
gravelled  lane  I  find  the  road  bad  enough  and  am 
almost  persuaded  to  return,  but  then  Blanche  would 
clap  her  hands  and  think  how  nicely  she  had  outwitted 
her  "  shrewd  cousin,"  as  she  often  calls  me.  So  I 
keep  on  and  arrive  at  Ilillsdale  in  a  sorry  plight 
There  I  discover  that  Charley  has  left  a  shoe  some 
where  in  the  mud,  and  he  must  stand  at  the  black 
smith's  for  half  an  hour.  There  is  a  letter  for  Blanche 


IN     AMERICA.  15 

in  the  post  office  and  a  packet  of  papers  for  me,  with 
a  letter  well  covered  with  European  post-marks  ;  it  is 
dated,  Venice,  March  — ,  and  has  been  only  thirty  days 
coming,  thanks  to  Collins'  enterprise.  The  superscrip 
tion  is  in  a  familiar  hand-writing,  that  of  Blanche's 
brother,  my  familiar  friend.  I  put  it  in  my  pocket 
unopened,  to  be  read  by  our  evening  fire.  The  papers 
are  interesting  with  details  of  the  Revolution  in  Paris, 
and  I  sit  down  to  read  them  whilst  Charley  is  being 
shod. 

It  is  sun  down  when  I  reach  our  gate,  and  as  I  look 
upward,  I  see  Minnie  and  Blanche  in  the  arbor  on  the 
knoll,  waving  their  handkerchiefs  at  my  return.  Birdie 
is  there  too,  and  I  know  he  has  been  watching  for  "his 
ship"  to  emerge  from  the  Highlands,  the  ship  which 
his  nurse  tells  him  will  bring  the  long  talked-of  pony. 
How  unshadowed  is  childhood's  faith  and  hopeful 
ness  !  Yes,  my  child,  your  pony  will  come,  but  that 
fabled  ship,  like  ours,  is  moored  on  viewless  waters 
beside  aerial  castles,  nor  freighted  yet  with  the  wealth 
that  lies  beneath  their  "  pleasure  domes  ! "  We  all 
meet  at  the  house,  and  Blanche  getting  the  letter, 
saunters  away  to  read  it,  her  sunny  face  beaming  with 
pleasure  ;  whilst  I,  weaned  after  my  ride,  lounge  upon 
the  sofa  and  frolic  with  .Birdie  till  Bridget  takes  him 
away  for  the  night.  Tea  over,  that  genial  cup  so 
grateful  to  the  weary,  abused  by  Ilanway  and  defended 


RURAL     LIFE 

by  Johnson,  we  gather  round  the  fire,  not  a  dead,  dry 
grate-confined  fire,  though  the  house  is  modern  built, 
but  a  kindling,  flashing  blaze  of  old  hickory,  diffusing 
its  moist  warmth  into  every  corner  and  lighting  up  the 
study,  so  that  the  reading  lamp  is  fairly  dimmed. 
When  the  flame  is  brightest,  I  take  from  my  pocket 
Frank's  travel-soiled  letter,  the  first  we  have  had  from 
him  since  the  scrawl  he  sent  by  a  stray  pilot-boat  com 
ing  homeward.  Thus  he  writes  with  all  the  warmth 
of  an  out-gushing,  imaginative  spirit : 

"Harry,  Minnie,  Blanche, — I  am  in  Venice,  the 
city  of  the  Doges,  of  the  Rialto  and  '  silent  highways.' 
I  walk  the  Piazza  of  St.  Marc  with  Shylock  and 
Othello  and  Jessica,  but  in  thought  I  roam  with  you 
the  leafy  paths  of  Hermit's  Dell.  This  is  a  strange 
city  !  the  swiftly  gliding,  funereal  gondolas,  the  deserted 
and  desecrated  palaces,  the  degenerated  people,  all 
impress  me  wonderfully ;  yet  it  is  as  a  dream,  and  I 
cannot  realize  that  I  am  in  Venice.  You,  Harry,  may 
never  cense  to  regret  not  coming  here  when  you  were 
in  Italy.  Florence,  Rome,  Naples,  each  have  their 
charms  and  storied  associations,  but  Venice  is  unique. 
I  wish  you  could  see  the  Ducal  palace,  whose  long 
halls  are  fairly  warmed  by  the  glowing  colors  of  Titian, 
Paul  Veronese  and  Tintoretto.  I  wish  you  could 
stand  with  me  in  the  Barbarigo  palace,  before  the 


IN     AMERICA.  1.7 

wonderful  '  Magdalen'  or  over  the  tomb  of  its  author, 
on  which  is  inscribed — 

'  Qui  giace  il  gran  Tiziano.' 

But  I  must  wait  till  I  am  with  you.  all  again  before  I 
can  relate  my  impressions ;  a  letter  is  but  a  poor 
vehicle  to  convey  them.  *  *  * 

*****  Tell  Blanche  she  must  not 
be  married  before  I  return,  which  will  be  in  three 
months,  unless  I  go  to  the  East,  which  depends  upon 
my  companion. 

Have  you  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  strange  being 
you  wrote  me  about  in  your  last  letter  ?  By  the  by, 
it  came  to  hand  at  Paris.  If  you  write  again,  direct  as 
before,  for  I  do  not  think  I  shall  reach  Egypt.  A  few 
words  about  ******* 

*  *  *  ******  *n 

But  the  rest  is  for  myself,  and  I  expect  Frank  will 
not  dream  that  I  have  transcribed  his  rambling  letter 
into  my  diary  ;  but  it  gladdened  an  evening  in  our 
experience,  and  so  it  must  have  its  page.  Blanche 
was  a  little  disappointed  at  not  having  a  few  lines 
especially  for  herself,  but  this  was  soon  forgotten. 
Frank's  letter  had  really  given  me  the  Italian  fever, 
so  I  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  over  my  own  journal, 
written  five  years  before,  and  in  brushing  up  my 

memories  of  masters  and  master-pieces  sadly  confused 
2 


18  RUKALLIFE 

What  an  influence  a  friend's  letter  exerts  upon  the 
spirit !  If  kind  and  genial,  it  seems  almost  like  the 
familiar  pressure  of  the  hand  that  wrote  it ;  if  harsh 
or  reproving,  it  wounds  us  ;  if  ungracious  and  con 
demning,  it  angers  us,  and  threatens  to  sever  the  links 
which  never  so  much  weight  of  mutual  grief  or  care 
could  weaken  or  separate  ! 

Frank's  letter  had  imbued  us  all  with  its  warm 
Italian  spirit ;  it  even  generated  yearnings  to  be  with 
him  in  his  travels,  and  made  us  almost  discontented 
with  our  hitherto  charming  locality.  But  a  thought 
was  engendered  in  my  brain,  as  a  passing  breeze  bore 
to  our  ears  the  voice  of  the  waterfall  far  down  in  the 
valley.  It  whispered  the  magic  name,  La  Solitaire. 
Yes,  it  dissipated  my  dreams  of  Venetian  gondolas  and 
palaces,  Shylock  and  Titian.  I  looked  at  Blanche  ; 
she  was  bending  over  her  tambour  frame,  and  I  saw 
that  her  thoughts  were  far  away ;  perhaps  in  the 
sunny  south. — perhaps  nearer  home.  Minnie  is  busy 
too  upon  a  new  frock  for  Birdie,  and  with  maternal 
vanity  is  doubtless  thinking  how  becoming  it  will  be 
to  his  fair  skin  and  rotund  form. 

Preparatory  to  the  suggestion  I  was  about  to  make, 
I  stepped  out  upon  the  piazza,  (Anglice,  porch,  for  my 
evening  researches  had  reminded  me  of  the  misnomer,) 
to  take  an  observation  of  the  weather.  It  was  a 
beautiful  night,  but  a  rime,  glistening  like  diamond 


IN     AM  ERICA.  1C, 

dust  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  lay  upon  the  grass  and 
coated  the  lightest  branches  of  the  shrubbery.  On  the 
river,  white  sails  were  gleaming  as  if  unsoiled  by  time 
or  weather,  whilst  the  lantern  of  the  Pharos,  ever 
lighted  by  its  watchful  guardian  to  warn  unskilful 
mariners  of  the  shoal  it  stands  upon,  seemed  a  super 
fluous  feature  of  the  scene  ;  though  its  cheerful  radi 
ance  has  been  often  our  pleasure  during  the  dreary 
nights  of  stormy  March.  The  cool  night  air  effectu 
ally  dissipated  my  Italian  fever,  so  I  came  back  to  my 
chair  and  cold  supper,  for  we  dine  early  in  the  coun 
try,  with  a  wholesome  appetite. 

The  good  bread  and  butter  and  cold  beef  had  the 
effect  of  opening  our  long  silent  mouths  in  a  twofold 
sense.  Blanche  had  done  dreaming,  for  a  while  at 
least,  and  Birdie's  gay  frock  was  finished  excepting 
the  buttons,  so  I  had  the  field  to  myself,  for  I  knew 
it  would  require  some  degree  of  persuasion  on  my 
part  to  secure  Minnie's  co-operation  at  least,  into  my 
plan,  for  they  both  had  always  felt  a  little  afraid  of 
La  Solitaire.  As  Blanche  is  the  most  persuasible  of 
the  two,  I  try  her  first.  "  Blanche,"  I  said,  "  let  me 
show  you  how  to  catch  a  trout  to-morrow ;  you  may 
have  my  light  rod,  I  will  bait  the  hook  for  you  and 
take  the  fish  off,  if  you  get  one  ;  you  shall  do  none  of 
the  drudgery  of  the  sport.  You  need  not  be  afraid  of 
the  sun  either,  for  my  seat  is  a  shady  one,  and  the 


20  RURAL     LIFE 

April  sun  is  not  warm  enough  to  be  unpleasant." 
''No,  cousin,"  replies  Blanche,  "  I  want  to  finish  this 
piece  in  time  for  the  fair  at  the  church  next  week  ; 
besides,  I  have  two  or  three  letters  to  write,  and  I  have 
promised  to  make  Uncle  William  a  visit  certainly  this 
month,  so  you  see  I  have  my  hands  full ;  but  I  will  go 
one  of  these  days."  "  But  Blanche,  cousin  mine,  it  will 
only  be  for  an  hour  or  two,  you  can  certainly  spare  that 
time,  and  now  it  is  not  so  warm  as  it  will  be  in  June." 

"  But,  cousin  Harry,  1  had  rather  not  go  ;  why  are 
you  so  pertinacious,  I  tancy  you  have  some  other  object 
in  mind,  haven't  you  now,  speak  the  truth?"  "Well 
Blanche,"  said  I,  not  wishing-  to  commit  myself,  "  I 
will  not  urge  you,  we  will  wait  your  pleasure,  for  the 
fish  need  coaxing ;  they  won't  bite  at  unwilling  hooks, 
you  know." 

Minnie  is  equally  intractable  ;  she  does  not  like  fish 
ing,  and  not  only  that,  there  are  household  matters 
requiring  attention.  The  cook  has  given  notice  of 
retiring  from  kitchen  duties  to  become  a  wife,  and 
there  will  be  a  week  or  two  before  another  can  be  per 
suaded  to  "lave  her  frinds"  in  the  city  and  go  to  the 
"  lone  counthry."  So  I  am  completely  vanquished, 
and  decide  to  await  another  letter  from  Frank,  which 
may  cause  a  relapse  of  the  "fever,"  for  this  I  think  will 
beget  a  sympathy  for  La  Solitaire.  I  sit  down  again 
to  my  book,  the  "  Cosmos"  of  Humboldt,  which  Frank's 


INAMERICA.  21 

letter  and  my  old  journal  has  superseded  for  a  while, 
and  am  soon  absorbed  in  his  "  study  of  nature,"  with 
all  its  wonderful  and  philosophical  details.  To  the 
ardent  lover  of  nature  and  all  that  is  her  handiwork, 
he  who  derives  his  highest  pleasure  in  the  contemplation 
of  grasses,  mosses  and  springing  flowers,  in  beholding 
the  glories  of  sunrise  and  sunset,  and  the  silvery  radi 
ance  of  moonlight  ;  to  him  who  listens  with  "  rapt  ear" 
to  the  \vhispers  of  leaf-stirring  breezes  or  the  roar  of 
the  tempest  amid  the  primeval  forests  ;  to  him  who 
loves  the.  murmur  of  streams,  the  voice  of  the  water 
fall  and  the  dash  of  ocean's  surge  ;  or  finds  delight  in 
anything  that  is  Nature's,  how  fertile  seems  the  theme 
which  the  great  naturalist  expounds  ! 

He  awakens  memories  of  our  schoolboy  days,  and 
going  back  to  our  alma  mater,  we  con  again  the  well- 
worn  Pliny,  Virgil,  and  Euripides  of  those  classic  days. 
Then  there  are  Gregory  of  Nyssa  and  Chrysostom 
the  hermit,  Camoens  and  Dante,  and  a  host  of  others, 
ancient  and  modern,  with  whose  works  we  are  more 
or  less  familiar. 

But  Blanche  is  dozing,  Minnie  is  getting  impatien% 
rny  lamp  is  burning  dim,  and  it  is  long  past  bedtime. 


22  BUKALLIFE 


III. 

As  m  city,  so  in  country  life,  day  after  day  brings  its 
employments,  duties  and  pleasures.  They  err  who 
say,  that  out  of  cities  and  towns,  in  the  wide  domain 
of  woods  and  fields,  existence  is  lazy  and  selfish. 

True,  that  contact  with  our  fellow  men  is  less  fre 
quent  here,  and  that  our  sphere  for  well-doing  unto 
others  is  far  more  limited  ;  but  the  poor  and  suffering 
are  everywhere  ;  all  over  the  world  reigns  the  curse 
for  sin,  in  the  "hedges"  as  well  as  the  "highways." 
There  are  some  who  everywhere  wrap  about  them 
the  impenetrable  cloak  of  selfishness  ;  but  to  him  of 
willing  heart  and  hand,  occasions  for  kindly  words  and 
deeds  are  never  wanting. 

There  are  many  too  who  have  had  their  share  of  the 
jostle  and  hurry  which  characterizes  city  life  ;  it  is 
perhaps  uncongenial  to  their  natures,  and  when  the 
object  which  stimulated  their  endeavors  is  acquired, 
they  look  about  for  rest.  Beautifully  has  some  one 
written, — 

"  One  does  not  want  for  ever  to  contend  with  the  mad 
race  of  waters,  and  the  arm  longs  to  put  out  of  the  cur- 


I  N     A  M  E  K  I  C  A  .  23 

rent  into  some  quiet  cove  where  sunbeams  glitter  in 
golden  rings,  and  overhanging  trees  make  green  sha 
dows  and  soft  whisperings — it  longs  for  a  rest" 

Some  such  thoughts  had  I  this  morning  as  a  poor, 
travel-worn  stranger  stopped  at  the  kitchen  door  to  crave 
a  mouthful  of  food.  After  he  had  eaten  his  fill  he  came 
to  the  garden,  where,  like  the  child  I  have  read  of, 
I  was  examining  some  of  the  seeds  we  had  planted,  to 
see  whether  they  were  growing.  He  wanted  work ; 
for  he  says  he  is  poor,  and  has  no  home  or  friends,  but 
is  willing  to  work.  He  is  a  Pole,  and  having  vainly 
tried  to  find  employment  in  the  city,  has  started,  he 
knows  not  whither,  in  search  of  a  living.  I  question 
him  a  little,  but  he  hardly  understands  me,  nor  I,  him. 
Yet  I  gather  enough  to  know  that  it  is  the  same  tale 
we  often  hear:  a  recital  of  oppression,  cruelty  and  suf 
fering,  of  family  ties  rudely  sundered,  and  warm  hearts 
ruthlessly  broken.  He  is  a  strong  man,  but  weeps  like 
a  child  as  he  strives  to  tell  me  his  history.  Poor  fel 
low  !  he  has  probably  pawned  all  the  clothing  that  is 
not  absolutely  necessary  to  cover  him  ;  yet  he  still 
wears  his  braided  coat,  now  sadly  out  of  repair,  and 
destined  soon  to  be  cast  aside.  I  find  something  for 
him  to  do  and  promise  him  a  shelter  for  the  night,  and 
he  almost  overpowers  me  with  gratitude. 

Teddy   brings  me  word   that    Brindle,   our   choice 
Devon,  has  a  calf  an  hour  old,  but  unfortunately  it  la 


24  RtTRALLIFE 

of  the  male  gender,  at  which  I  am  greatly  disappointed, 
for  I  had  hoped  to  raise  a  heifer  from  her  this  season. 
The  butcher  from  the  village  reaches  us  three  times  in 
•Jie  week,  and  brings,  for  our  convenience,  whatever 
letters  or  papers  come  for  us  by  the  mail  of  the  pre 
vious  night  ;  as  yet  the  terminus  of  the  railroad 
running  from  the  city  is  many  miles  distant,  and  our 
only  communication  is  by  steamboat  and  barge. 

But  the  butcher's  red  wagon  is  at  the  door,  and 
Blanche  is  on  the  piazza,  holding  up  a  letter  for  me. 
It  contains,  as  I  expected,  notice  that  the  Shetland 
pony  which  Birdie  has  been  looking  for  so  long,  was 
shipped,  no  not  "  shipped,"  but  "  barged,"  last  evening 
from  the  city.  It  must  have  arrived  at  the  Point 
this  morning,  and  I  forthwith  despatched  Teddy  after 
it  on  old  Charley,  a  ride  of  three  miles/ 

Poor  Teddy  !  he  does  not  want  to  go,  for  he  is 
planting  with  great  care  a  large  bed  of  early  beets,  and 
is  afraid  that  "  Polaski,"  as  he  calls  the  poor  fellow, 
his  co-worker,  will  destroy  it,  but  I  promise  it  shall 
not  be  disturbed,  and  he  is  off  to  the  stable  as  fast  as 
his  short  legs  can  carry  him. 

He  is  a  perfect  jewel  in  his  way,  that  same  Teddy, 
as  honest  and  faithful  an  Hibernian  as  ever  lived  ;  there 
is  no  pretension  in  him  either,  though  he  can  do  almost 
anything,  and  what  he  undertakes,  he  does  well. 
Grooming  Charley,  milking  Brindle,  chopping  wood, 


INAMERICA.  26 

making  the  garden,  and  running  here  and  there,  keep 
him  busy  ;  but  he  is  never  behindhand,  and  never  tired. 
Where  could  I  get  such  another  ?  I  endeavor  to  show 
Pulaski  what  I  wish  him  to  do,  and  not  to  do,  then  go 
to  the  house  and  sit  awhile  with  Minnie  and  Blanche, 
perusing  the  papers  which  came  this  morning. 

The  steamer  is  to  sail  day  after  to-morrow,  and  this 
fact  reminds  me  that  I  must  write  to  Frank,  but  I  put  off 
the  task  till  evening,  when  there  will  be  nothing  to  inter 
rupt  me.  We  pass  away  an  hour  in  pleasant  talk  on 
subjects  domestic  and  foreign  ;  though  there  is  one 
domestic  topic  broached  by  Minnie,  not  very  pleasant 
to  me.  She  says,  I  must  search  for  a  cook;  and  if  I 
cannot  find  one  here,  why,  I  will  have  to  go  to  the  city 
for  one.  I  protest  loudly  against  this  innovation  of 
marital  duties,  but  Minnie's  persuasive  powers  carry 
-he  day,  and  I  promise  to  try  :  Blanche  roguishly  say 
ing,  "  Only  think,  cousin,  what  an  amusing  little  story 

you  might  write,  called,  '  Harry  C in  search  of  a 

cook.' " 

Twelve  o'clock  comes,  and  soon  after  Teddy  passes 
the  window,  leading  as  diminutive  and  shaggy  a  speci 
men  of  horse-flesh  as  I  ever  saw.  We  all  run  out  to 
see  him,  and  some  one  calls  Bridget  and  tells  her  to 
bring  Birdie  dowrn,  and  even  Pulaski  ventures  to  leave 
his  work  and  draw  nearer.  Birdie  cannot  get  down 
stairs  fast  enough,  so  Bridget  must  carry  him,  and 


26  RURAL     LIFE 

\vhen  he  reaches  the  scene,  what  an  impersonation  of 
delight  he  becomes.  The  pony  is  a  perfect  stoic  ;  he 
allows  all  sorts  of  liberties  from  us.  Teddy  opens  his 
mouth  to  see  how  old  he  is.  I  look  at  his  unshod  feet 
Blanche  handles  his  long  mane  ;  while  to  crown  all, 
Birdie  is  placed  upon  his  back,  switch  in  hand,  and 
wonderfully  brave,  till  Teddy  leads  his  charge  a  step 
forward,  upon  which  the  young  novice  utters  piteous 
cries  for  papa,  mamma  and  Bridget  to  take  him  down. 
This  done,  Shag  is  led  to  the  stable  to  get  a  good  mess 
of  bran  and  rest  after  his  long  journey,  for  he  is  still 
on  his  sea  legs. 

Whilst  we  are  at  dinner,  the  ladies  propose  that  I 
take  them  a  drive  this  afternoon.  There  are  necessary 
purchases  to  be  made  at  Hillsdale  store,  and  we  can 
get  the  morning  papers  from  the  post-office.  I  acqui 
esce  if  they  will  go  in  the  box  wagon,  as  it  is  lighter 
than  the  other,  and  the  roads  are  not  yet  in  order. 
In  an  hour  Charley  is  at  the  door,  and  though  he  is 
pretty  well  advanced  in  years,  yet  when  well  groomed 
and  harnessed,  there  are  few  nobler  looking  animals ; 
and  then  he  is  so  gentle  and  fast,  and  knows  so  well  the 
gait  he  is  to  travel.  We  drive  slowly  down  the  road 
which  winds  along  our  hill-side,  and  crossing  the 
creek  that  bounds  our  domain  upon  the  north,  \ve 
enter  the  river  woods,  beneath  whose  overarching 
branches,  the  road  is  always  dump  aiid  shadowy,  eveii 


IN     AMERICA.  27 

in  summer.  Here  and  there,  where  the  high  ground 
commands  a  fine  river  or  mountain  view,  or  both  com 
bined,  the  forest  has  been  long  since  cleared  away, 
and  tasteful  dwellings  with  velvety  lawns  and  wel] 
kept  enclosures,  mark  the  hand  of  wealth  and  taste 
They  are  the  abodes  of  those  upon  whose  intercourse 
and  society  w7e  are  dependant  for  much  of  our  present 
and  prospective  pleasure.  Keeping  the  river  road, 
which  runs  northward  for  many  miles  some  distance 
farther,  we  diverge  into  a  narrow  lane  cut  through  the 
woods,  and  intersecting  the  level  turnpike  leading 
from  Hillsdale  to  the  river.  This  is  skirted  by  large 
and  fertile  farms,  mostly  grazing  land,  and  is  much 
travelled.  We  have  taken  this  roundabout  wTay  to 
our  destination  merely  for  the  drive,  and  shall  return 
by  a  more  direct  road.  Reaching  the  village  which,  as 
its  name  mplies,  is  embosomed  amidst  the  hills,  I 
discharge  Minnie  and  Blanche  at  the  main  store,  and 
then  tying  Charley  under  the  tavern  shed,  I  stop  at 
the  post-office  and  getting  my  papers,  sit  down  to 
chat  awhile  with  its  sociable  and  news-burdened  func 
tionary. 

When  the  ladies'  shopping  time  has  expired,  and  I 
rise  to  leave,  a  flaming  yellow  handbill  posted  on  the 
wall  attracts  my  notice.  It  is  to  inform  the  public 
that  an  itinerant  lecturer  "will  address  them  to-mor 
row  evening  at  the  meeting-house  in  Bridge  Valley,  on 


28  RURAL     LIFE 

Animal  Magnetism,  illustrated  by  subjects."  We  will 
go,  thought  I,  it  \vill  just  suit  our  dreamy  Blanche, 
and  if  we  do  not  become  converts,  it  will  be  a  pleasant 
moonlight  ride  at  least !  By  the  time  I  reach  the 
store  and  the  assiduous  clerk  packs  away  the  various 
sized  straw-papered  packages,  Minnie  and  Blanche 
have  finished  their  business  with  the  dressmaker  who 
lives  adjoining  the  store,  and  we  are  soon  on  our  way 
homeward.  The  road  now  lies  over  and  between  the 
ridges  of  hills  which  run  parallel  with  the  river,  and 
break  the  force  of  those  chill  easterly  winds  so  preva 
lent  in  our  latitude.  The  sun  js  nearing  the  horizon; 
and,  as  we  follow  the  inequalities  of  the  road,  some 
times  we  are  in  sunlight,  sometimes  and  oftencr  i* 
shadow,  so  like — 

*•  The  lights  and  shades,  whose  well-accorded  strife 
Gives  all  the  strength  and  colour  of  our  life." 

We  reach  home  in  time  to  give  Birdie  his  go(  1- 
night  kiss,  and  take  tea  at  the  usual  hour.  Teddy 
has  made  Pulaski  an  odorous  bed  in  the  hay  loft,  fad 
the  poor  wanderer  has  gone  to  it,  perhaps  to  dreair.  of 
his  country  and  her  wrongs. 

When  the  astral  is  lighted  and  a  fresh  stick  put  on 
the  fire,  we  dispose  ourselves  as  best  pleases  us.  I 
take  my  book  till  Blanche  finishes  her  two  pages  to 
Frank  at  the  escritoire,  whiM  ii-dusl/unus  M:ih  ie 


IN     AMERICA.  29 

opens  some  of  her  many  bundles,  which  perfume  the 
room  with  a  mingled  scent  of  coffee,  cinnamon  and 
sugar,  to  find  buttons  and  cord  for  that  frock  which  is 
to  display  her  darling's  charms  so  becomingly.  It  is 
soon  finished,  arid  Bridget  is  summoned  to  take  it  to 
the  nursery  and  put  it  on  the  child  when  he  is  dressed 
for  dinner  to-morrow.  Oh  !  a  mother's  vanity  !  but  it 
is  akin  to  her  love. 

Blanche  is  a  ready  writer,  and  has  spun  out  three 
pages,  from  which  she  reads  us  occasional  passages 
and  then  gives  me  her  seat.  I  have  much  to  write 
about,  so  I  hunt  up  some  Paris  post  paper  that  has 
been  reposing  in  my  drawer  for  years,  and  shall  proba 
bly  indite  six  or  eight  pages  of  it. 

As  I  write,  Blanche  opens  the  piano  and  plays  the 
serenade  from  "  Don  Pasquale,"  for,  ever  thoughtful 
as  she  is,  she  knows  it  is  a  favorite  air  of  mine,  and 
that  music  is  always  suggestive  to  my  pen. 

Minnie  tells  me  not  to  forget  to  thank  Frank  for 
that  case  of  anchovies  and  basket  of  Florentine  oil 
he  shipped  from  Leghorn,  and  which  are  now  in  our 
larder.  No,  my  friend,  those  choice  and  spicy  fish 
keep  you  in  eternal  remembrance ;  as  for  the  oil,  we 
will  prove  its  delicacy  when  my  lettuce  is  well  up 
and  before  it  has  headed,  I  assure  you.  When  1 
reached  my  third  page,  Blanche  says  she  forgot  to  tell 
Frank  not  to  fail  bringing  her  the  coral  and  lava  sets 


30  }>  U  K  A  L     LIFE 

from  Naples,  and  if  he  should  go  to  Constantinople, 
"  he  must  bring  her  a  pair  of  Turkish  slippers,  the 
handsomest  blue  and  silver  ones  he  can  find."  By 
and  by,  I  am  in  want  of  a  sentence,  and  I  ask  Minnie 
if  she  has  any  commission  for  Frank  to  fill.  She  says 
she  will  think,  but  as  the  thought  does  not  come  very 
soon,  I  have  to  think  of  something  I  would  like  for 
myself,  a  chibouque  perhaps,  if  he  goes  to  the  East, 
or  a  Damascus  hunting  knife. 

But  at  last  I  reach  my  eighth  page  of  desultory  mat 
ter,  and  looking  over  what  I  have  written,  I  believe  I 
.have  touched  on  every  topic  that  could  interest  my 
friend.  He  has  never  been  here,  and  has  no  idea  of 
our  location  except  from  the  description  I  wrote  him 
after  we  came.  I  tell  him  of  Charley  and  Brindle, 
Shag,  Birdie  and  Teddy,  and  of  ourselves,  our  quiet 
home  pleasures,  our  hopes  and  fears  ;  I  speak  again  of 
La  Solitaire,  but  can  tell  him  little  more  than  I  did 
at  first ;  then  I  close  with  wishes  from  all  of  us  for  his 
safe  and  speedy  return.  No,  there  is  a  P.  S.  to  be 
crowded  in  ;  it  is  Minnie's  wish  that  has  reached  her 
lips  at  last.  Well,  Minnie,  what  is  it  ?  "  Why  just 
ask  Frank,  if  it  is  not  too  much  trouble,  to  bring  me  a 
fine  Scotch  woollen  plaid  to  make  Birdie  a  coat  next 
Fall,  he  knows  my  taste."  Oh,  Minnie,  Minnie,  you 
ivill  spoil  that  boy ! 

Blanche's  sweeping  fingers  stop  for  a  moment  in  ths 


IN"      AMERICA.  31 

middle  of  a  passage  from  "  Sonnambula,"  as  though  ti 
sudden  thought  had  struck  her,  and  she  wishes  to 
express  it ;  but  it  is  only  for  a  moment ;  she  restrains 
't  and  her  hand  sweeps  the  keys  again. 

"  I  know  you  are  wishing  for  something  more, 
Blanche,  but  I  think  you  can  do  without  it.  Frank's 
trunk  is  over-burdened  already,  and  will  hardly  pass 
the  custom-house  duty  free." 

I  enclose  Blanche's  letter  in  mine,  seal  it  and  direct 
it  to  his  banker's  at  Paris ;  he  will  open  it  within 
thirty  days,  and  in  less  time  than  that,  he  will  be  with 
us  I  know,  if  I  mistake  not  the  influence  of  his  sister's 
letter.  Will  she  postpone  that  eventful  day  to  which 
she  is  looking  forward,  if  he  is  not  here  ?  her  owrn 
heart  can  tell. 

But  it  is  nearly  midnight,  later  by  two  hours  than 
we  generally  sit  up.  Books,  paper  and  pen  are  laid 
aside,  the  piano  closed ;  and  lighting  their  chamber 
candles,  my  companions  quietly  vanish.  I  turn  down 
the  wick  of  the  astral  till  its  flame  expires,  and  then 
heap  ashes  on  the  smouldering  embers  of  the  fire, 
which, 

"Just  glimmering,  bids  each  shadowy  image  fall 
Sombrous  and  strange  upon  the  darkening  wall." 


32 


RURAL     L  I  F  K 


IV. 

SPRING  is  maturing-  most  beautifully,  and  the  sight 
most  grateful  to  mine  eyes  this  morning  are  the  well- 
defined  rows  of  my  early  frame  pease,  and  the  tender 
leaves  of  nascent  lettuce.  Pulaski  spades  with  greater 
vigor  than  he  did  yesterday,  and  seems  elated  from 
some  cause  or  other.  Can  it  be  that  he  carries  a 
stimulus  in  his  pocket  ?  No,  I  wrong-  him,  for  Teddy 
approaches  and  tells  me  he  went  over  to  farmer  Mead's 
last  night,  hearing  he  wanted  a  man  to  tend  his  cattle  ; 
and  that  he  has  promised  to  take  the  poor  Pole  on  trial, 
as  soon  as  I  have  done  with  him.  This  is  pleasant  to 
all  parties,  for  I  felt  loth  to  discharge  the  wanderer,  as 
I  intended  doing  in  a  day  or  two. 

Brindle's  calf  is  thriving  finely,  and  Shag  looks 
somewhat  better  after,  the  grooming  he  had  this  morn 
ing  ;  by  and  by  we  will  have  him  on  the  lawn,  and  try 
to  make  him  and  Birdie  better  acquainted. 

The  weather  is  so  pleasant  and  the  meadow  looks 
so  much  dryer,  I  return  to  the  house  and  get  out  my 
gun  in  hopes  of  finding  some  English  snipe  on  the  low 
grounds.  Dash,  my  noble  setter,  whom,  amidst  the 


IN     AMERICA.  33 

variety  of  topics  which  have  engaged  my  pen,  I  have 
forgotten  to  mention,  is  almost  beside  himself  at  sight 
of  my  gun,  so  long  laid  aside.  He  runs  and  turns  and 
hunts  the  lawn  in  the  wildest  manner,  then  comes  up 
to  me  and  crouches  at  my  feet  whilst  I  charge  my 
piece.  A  fine  and  full-blooded  setter  is  Dash,  the 
treasured  gift  of  a  friend  who  has  long  been  gone 

"  To  the  dim  unknown." 

Many  are  the  woodcocks  we  have  shot  together  on  the 
meadows  of  the  Delaware  and  amidst  Jersey  swamps  ; 
many  the  quail  flushed  on  autumn  stubble-fields.  But 
those  days  are  over,  and  it  is  seldom  that  I  hunt  now  ! 
Dash  is  getting  old  too,^ind  fat  and  lazy  ;  he  loves 
better  to  lie  dozing  in  me  sunshine  on  the  cottage 
porch,  than  soil  his  coat  with  black  swamp  mud  or 
tangle  it  with  briars. 

It  is  a  novelty  to  him  now,  and  we  go  toward  the 
meadow  with  careful  step.  Dash  is  wild,  and  I  have 
to  restrain  him.  There  !  a  bird  rises  and  is  off  with 
rapid  zigzags  ;  a  little  farther  and  up  gets  another  ;  I 
fire  as  he  turns  and  drop  him  Charge,  Dash  !  I  may 
want  two  barrels  for  the  next  one.  Another  and  still 
another  rises,  and  I  get  two  out  of  the  four.  The 
meadow  stretches  for  a  half  mile  along  the  creek,  and 
then  merges  into  swamp  and  woodland,  on  which 

doubtless  the  woodcock   are  plenty  in  July.     By  the 
3 


34  RURALLIFK 

time  I  reach  home  there  are  five  birds  in  my  pocket, 
whose  succulent  flesh  will  make  us  a  glorious  supper 
after  our  return  from  Bridge-valley  to-night. 

Dinner  has  been  over  for  some  time,  but  thoughtful 
hands  have  placed  in  the  heater  before  the  fire  a  plate 
or  two  of  substantials  and  a  dish  of  some  delicate  com 
pound,  Blanche's  invention  and  handiwork.  Whilst  I 
eat,  Birdie  is  in  the  hall,  wondering  at  the  birds  and 
caressing  them  after  his  fashion,  till  Bridget  takes 
them  to  the  kitchen. 

Blanche  practises  the  last  new  Polka,  which  she  does 
not  fancy  much  because  it  is  not  difficult  enough  ;  sho 
'oves  dashing,  brilliant  music,  like  Jullien's  and  Herz's. 
Minnie  is  almost  lost  in  my%reat  reading  chair — 

"  An  antique  chair 
Cushioned  with  cunning  luxury1' — 

and  deeply  absorbed  with  the  glowing  pages  of  Hans 
Anderson's  "  Improvisatore." 

We  are  to  have  tea  served  early,  for  there  are  three 
miles  to  drive  to  Bridge-valley,  and  I  send  orders  to 
Teddy  about  the  conveyance.  The  couch  before  the 
fire  looks  inviting,  and,  taking  up  "  Cosmos,"  which 
I  have  nearly  finished,  I  read  till  the  book  drops  out 
of  my  hand,  and  almost  unconsciously  I  am  dozing. 

Blanche's  music  was  soothing,  and  Minnie's  attitude 
was  drowsily  suggestive  ;  besides,  I  was  reading  of 


IN     AM1  ERICA.  35 

stellar  research,  which  savors  of  drowsy  night ;  »-j  it  is 
not  surprising  that  I  was  overpowered. 

The  clatter  of  the  cups  and  saucers,  however,  rouses 
me,  and  Blanche,  who  likes  to  get  the  advantage  of  me 
sometimes,  exclaims,  "  There,  cousin  Harry,  you  say 
you  never  sleep  in  the  daytime  ;  why,  you  have  been 
sound  asleep  and  snoring  for  an  hour  ;  you  owe  me  a 
pair  of  gloves  too — Bajou's  best,  dove  color,  number 
seven — don't  forget."  Looking  at  the  clock,  I  have  to 
plead  guilty,  and  my  fair  cousin  has  no  doubt  earned 
the  gloves  ;  in  fact,  I  felt  the  impress  of  her  lips  upon 
my  forehead  when  I  woke. 

My  demure  Minnie,  who  is  little  older  than  her  com 
panion,  laughs  at  her  gay  raillery.  She  is  not  jealous, 
and  says  I  shall  pay  the  gloves. 

What  a  happy  home  is  ours  !  How  closely  are  the 
hearts  of  its  in-dwellers  united  !  But  one  of  these  days 
Blanche,  whose  very  presence  is  as  a  ray  of  sunlight 
and  a  blessing,  is  to  go  out  from  us  and  form  new  ties — 
new  associations.  We  often  think  of  it,  and  are  selfish 
enough  to  wish  it  otherwise  ;  but  it  is  human  nature. 

As  the  sun  sets  we  take  a  cup  of  tea,  reserving  our 
appetites  for  the  better  appreciation  of  the  supper  in 
store  for  us,  and  soon  the  wagon  is  at  the  door. 

We  take  an  easterly  direction  now,  for  the  little 
settlement  at  Bridge-valley  lies  amidst  the  hills  equi 
distant  from  Hillsdale  and  another  village  of  the  same 


56  RURAL     LIFE 

size  farther  south.  After  the  hills  are  crossed,  we  come 
into  a  wide  and  fertile  valley,  through  which  a  rapid 
creek  winds,  whose  waters  furnish  motive  power  suffi 
cient  to  drive  a  large  paper  and  grist  mill  the  year 
round.  These  probably  formed  the  nucleus  round 
which  the  village  has  gathered  and  grown.  This  is 
the  old  post  route,  and  an  antiquated  tavern  with  a 
high  sign-post,  from  which  a  weather-beaten  portrait 
of  the  "Father  of  his  Country"  hangs  creaking  and 
dangling,  still  offers  dubious  "  accommodation  for  man 
and  beast." 

This,  with  the  post-office  store  on  one  corner,  and  a 
rival  one  on  the  other,  a  butcher's  and  baker's  shop, 
a  shoe  store,  and  the  "meeting-house,"  mainly  consti 
tute  the  village  of  Bridge-valley. 

The  place  derives  its  name  from  the  noble  stone  struc 
ture  which  spans  the  stream  on  two  massive  arches, 
forming  the  only  substantial  connection  of  the  twd 
shores  for  a  distance  of  three  miles. 

We  reach  the  "  meeting-house,"  as  they  choose  to 
call  it,  in  good  season.  It  is  plainly  a  gala-night  in 
Bridge-valley.  The  sheds  are  occupied  by  every 
description  of  vehicle,  from  the  lumber-box  family 
wagon,  with  its  spring-seats  covered  with  buffalo  skins, 
to  the  light,  spider-bodied  sulky,  driven  by  some  "fast  ' 
young  man  with  a  fast  horse. 

Aspiring  youths  with  very  stiff  collars  and  fanciful 


IN     AMERICA.  37 

cravats,  stand  in  knots  about  the  door,  awaiting  the 
lecturer.  Inside,  the  plain  pine  benches  are  pretty  well 
filled  with  promiscuous  occupants.  Staid  farmers  and 
their  wives  in  unassuming  apparel ;  smart-looking 
beaux,  whip  in  hand,  sitting  snugly  between  gaily- 
dressed,  buxom  maidens,  to  many  of  whom  this  is  doubt 
less  an  eventful  occasion,  an  epoch  in  their  lives. 
On  the  foremost  benches,  noisy  and  inquiring  boys  sit, 
scraping  their  feet  over  the  sanded  floor,  and  slyly 
munching  peanuts  and  mint-stick  a  la  "  National." 

Here  and  there  in  the  assembly,  we  recognize  a 
familiar  face,  drawn  hither  like  ourselves  from  curios 
ity  or  to  enjoy  a  moonlight  drive.  Soon  a  wonder 
ful  commotion  at  the  door,  and  a  sudden  influx  of 
the  "  outsiders,"  herald  the  coming  of  the  lecturer. 
There  is  considerable  excitement  for  a  while  in  the 
assembly  :  a  great  many  have  bad  coughs,  numerous 
heads  bob  this  way  and  that,  and  the  boys  in  front 
whisper  and  giggle  and  rub  their  hands  together  in 
anticipation  of  fun.  Two  youngsters  in  front  of  us 
joke  about  the  "  lecturer's  hair,"  which  really  does 
stand  from  his  head  as  though  it  was  magnetized. 
When  silence  is  restored  to  some  degree,  the  "Pro 
fessor"  mounts  the  platform,  and  addresses  his 
audience.  He  talks  of  Mesmer,  and  Gall,  and  Spurz- 
heim,  and  enlarges  upon  "magnetic  influences"  and 
"  phrenological  developments."  He  indulges  in  a  great 


38  RURAL     LIFE 

many  hard  words,  among  which  are  "  clairvoyance  "  and 
"  psychology,"  whereupon  some  of  his  listeners  look  very 
much  edified,  though  they  have  not  the  remotest  idea 
of  their  meaning.  He  tried  very  hard  to  convert  unbe 
lievers  to  his  doctrine,  which  he  insists  "  is  as  true  as 
the  gospel,"  and  that  he  will  prove  it  by  "  ocular 
demonstration  if  any  of  the  audience  will  step  to  the 
stage  :"  to  which  Blanche  adds,  sotto  voce,  "  and  be 
made  fools  of." 

Upon  this  invitation  from  the  "  Professor,"  one  or 
two  of  the  older  boys  in  front  go  upon  the  platform  and 
take  their  seats  ;  and  soon  after,  two  young  men  from 
<vhe  rear  of  the  room  join  them.  They  are  each  pro 
vided  with  some  talismanic  bit  of  zinc  and  silver  com 
bined,  and  directed  to  keep  their  eyes  upon  it.  Whilst 
they  are  thus  employed,  the  lecturer  proceeds  with  his 
elucidations.  In  a  few  minutes  there  is  a  titter  among 
the  audience,  for  one  of  the  "subjects"  is  nodding  in 
an  unequivocal  manner  ;  soon  another  follows  suit,  and 
then  a  third,  but  the  remaining  one  is  not  "  susceptible," 
and  he  is  discharged.  The  Professor  now  makes 
sundry  gestures  and  manipulations  over  the  individuals, 
and  soon  "wills"  them  to  do  marvellous  things.  One 
imagines  he  is  fishing,  and  goes  through  all  the  move 
ments  pertaining  to  the  art  ;  another  fancies  himself  to 
be  Henry  Clay,  and  makes' a  speech  after  the  style  of 
the  statesman.  The  other  makes  wry  faces  at  tasting 


IN     AMERICA.  39 

a  glass  of  water  the  lecturer  gives  him,  thinking  it  to  be 
vinegar  ;  all  of  which  is  very  amusing  and  "  convinc 
ing"  to  the  audience. 

We  have  seen  enough,  however,  and  leave  before  we 
are  made  converts  of.  I  remain  decidedly  skeptical, 
and  as  to  the  ladies,  they  seem  equally  unbelieving 
Teddy  alone  expresses  his  undisguised  opinion,  in  de 
claring  "  they  can't  humbug  him." 

Our  ride  home  is  delightful,  and  Charley  whirs  us 
over  the  road  at  a  glorious  rate,  for  in  half  an  hour 
from  the  meeting-house,  we  are  sitting  cozily  by  the 
parlor  fire,  expatiating  on  the  merits  and  demerits  of 
the  evening's  entertainment. 

By  and  by,  a  savory  and  appetizing  odor  penetrates 
the  house,  and  when  the  table  is  spread  in  the  dining- 
room,  we  are  summoned  to  our  supper.  There  is 
everything  necessary  to  its  appreciation,  but  the  salad, 
that  we  think  grows  so  slowly.  Blanche  and  I  enjoy 
the  birds  with  epicurean  zest,  but  Minnie,  a  true  disciple 
of  Epicurus,  craves  their  heads  for  the  dainty  bits  that 
are  within.  What  do  you  think  of  that,  oh  !  sage 
and  genial  Frank — Forrester  ?  Is  not  her  taste  appre 
ciative  ? 

It  is  Saturday  night.  A  sensation  of  weariness 
comes  over  us,  even  at  the  remembrance,  and  we  go 
early  to  bed.  "  Good  night,  cousin  !  "  "  Good  night, 
Minnie  !  " — "  Bon  soir,  Blanche  ;  pleasant  dreams  !" 


RURALLIFE 


V. 

SABBATH  in  the  country  !  a  day  of  real  rest  and 
quiet,  except  for  those  employments  which  are  always 
necessary,  even  in  the  performance  of  religious 
duty. 

The  clatter  of  the  mill  is  stopped,  that  whir  and 
clatter  so  familiar,  that  we  do  not  think  of  it  till  it  is 
missed.  The  garden  tools  are  laid  aside  ;  Pulaski  has 
gone  to  his  new  home,  and  the  halloo  of  the  boy,  who 
has  been  all  the  week  ploughing  farmer  Mead's  corn 
ground,  is  hushed  for  the  day. 

We  hear  the  bell  of  Hillsdale  church — our  church — 
but  faintly  through  the  intervening  woods  ;  and  fainter 
still,  that  of  the  meeting-house  at  Bridge-valley,  over 
the  hills. 

Breakfast  over,  and  morning  duties  attended  to,  we 
prepare  for  church,  in  which  there  is  service  but  once 
during  the  day.  Blanche,  however,  changes  her  mind 
as  she  is  about  to  get  into  the  carriage,  and  says  she 
does  not  feel  very  well,  and  would  rather  not  go  ;  so 
we  go  without  her.  Ah  !  Blanche,  I  well  know  what 
affects  vou,  arid  why  your  eyes  looked  so  tearful  this 


IN     AMERICA.  41 

/norning  ;  but  you  must  try  to  conquer  this  proneness 
to  melancholy  ! 

"Yes,"  replies  Minnie  to  my  soliloquy,  which  I  had 
anconsciously  spoken  aloud.  "  She  must  do  it,  for  it 
:s  affecting-  her  health  ;  she  is  too  doubting  and  appre- 
nensive,  and  it  is  all  for  another,  too."  We  reach  the 
church  as  the  bell  ceases  tolling.  It  is  an  old  Dutch 
building,  with  a  high  modern-built  steeple,  and  the 
interior  has  been  so  completely  modified  to  our  ideas 
of  comfort,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  Van  Winkles  and  Wyn- 
koops.  and  all  the  other  "Vans"  and  "  Koops,"  who 
helped  to  build  it,  would  recognize  their  handiwork,  if 
they  could  take  a  peep  at  it  from  their  graves,  which 
lie  under  its  shadow. 

The  congregation  is  large  and  wealthy,  for  it  is  the 
only  church  in  the  place,  if  we  except  a  smail  frame 
building  occupied  by  the  Catholics  as  a  chapel.  Our 
pastor,  though  old  and  gray-headed,  is  still  faithful  and 
vigorous,  truly  a  vigilant  "  watchman  on  the  towers  of 
Zion."  He  preaches  to  us  in  plain  terms  the  truths  of 
the  gospel,  avoiding  those  controversial  and  labyrinthine 
doctrines,  amidst  which  some  of  our  teachers  love  to 
flounder. 

Good  old  man  !  we  sit  and  listen  to  your  words, 
and  go  to  our  homes  wiser  and  better  for  their  influ> 
ence — not  mystified  and  misled. 

We  reach  the  cottage  with  pleasant  reflections  on 


42  RURAL     LIFE 

what  we  have  heard,  and  find  our  cousin  absorbed  in 
the  perusal  of  some  sombre  and  hypochondriac  memoir, 
whose  spirit  is  probably  in  unison  with  her  present 
state  of  feeling. 

Minnie  kisses  her,  and  inquires  if  she  fools  any  bet 
ter.  "  Not  much,  cousin,"  replies  Blanche. 

"  No,  nor  you  never  will,  Blanche,"  I  add,  "  unless 
you  lay  aside  that  book ;  better  read  good  Burton's 
'Anatomy  of  Melancholy'  than  that,  in  your  present 
morbid  state." 

Biidie,  whose  laughing  face  and  winsome  frolics  are 
enougti  to  cure  the  "  hypo"  in  any  body,  has  escaped 
Bridget's  eye,  and  rushes  into  the  room,  with  his 
resplendent  frock  of  Spring  colors  and  material  half 
buttoned.  I  take  him  on  my  knee,  and  ask  him  the 
few  questions  from  the  Child's  Catechism  which  are 
plain  to  his  comprehension.  He  knows  them  already 
from  frequent  rehearsal,  and  soon  slips  from  my  knee 
to  prattle  with  his  "  Aunty  Blanche." 

But  Blanche  is  not  in  the  humor  for  it,  and  the 
little  fellow  gets  a  book,  and  sits  down  on  the  floor  to 
amuse  himself  with  his  own  resources. 

I  take  up  a  book  to  read  till  dinner-time,  but  in  a 
a  few  minutes  I  hear  Birdie  give  a  long-drawn  sigh,  as 
if  from  the  very  depths  of  his  tiny  heart ;  his  book  is 
thrown  aside,  and  with  the  versatility  of  childhood,  he 
flies  to  some  other  attraction.  How  suggestive,  though 


"IN     AMERICA.  43 

comparatively  meaningless,  was  that  sigh  !  Age  sighs 
beneath  the  weight  of  years  ;  manhood,  with  the 
burden  of  care  ;  youth  longs  for  a  better  and  a 
happier  day,  and  childhood  sighs  amidst  its  playthings. 

The  afternoon  comes,  the  warm,  quiet  Sabbath 
afternoon.  It  is  a  dreamy  one,  and  I  am  inclined  to 
sit  in  my  luxurious  reading  chair,  and  fall  uncon 
sciously  to  sleep  over  my  "  Theron  and  Aspasio." 

But  I  take  my  cane,  and  walk  toward  the  bolt  of 
woods  which  lies  between  us  and  our  neighbor  Mead. 
There,  under  a  spreading  chestnut,  I  sit  and  view  the 
fair  scene  that  stretches  away  before  me.  I  think  of 
Birdie's  sigh,  and  weave  in  my  memory  some  rhyming 
thoughts,  which  if  I  keep  till  then,  shall  be  inscribed 
in  Blanche's  scrap-book  when  the  "lamps  are  lighted.' 

Lured  by  the  voice  of  the  cascade  not  far  distant,  I 
go  homeward  by  the  way  of  Hermit's  Dell,  and  loiter 
ing  there  awhile,  it  is  evening  ere  I  reach  the  house. 

Minnie  is  reading  aloud  from  my  book,  and  Blanche 
is  attentively  listening  with  unclouded  brow.  Reader! 
if  any  there  may  be,  who  shall  scan  these  desultory 
pages,  are  you  conversant  with  "  Theron  and  Aspasio  ? 
If  not,  get  it ;  it  is  a  book  for  your  rural  Sabbath  ; 
read  the  fourteenth  dialogue,  and  marvel  not  that 
some  love  the  country. 

"  Blanche,  you  feel  better,  do   you  not  ?"    I  ask 


44  RURALLIFE 

"  Yes,  cousin,  I  am  quite  well  now.  Say  no  more 
about  my  foolish  whims  ;  I  know  I  am  doubtful  some 
times  without  cause,  but  then,  I  cannot  help  having 
presentiments." 

"  Ah  !  Blanche,  you  know  what  we  are  told  :  '  Suf 
ficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.'  Bring  me 
your  'index  rerum,'  if  you  will."  It  is  cheerfully 
handed  me,  and  I  write  therein,  Bowring's  translation 
of  the  Chinese  maxim. 

"  To  seek  relief  from  doubt,  in  doubt, 
From  woe  in  woe,  from  sin  in  sin, 
Is  but  to  drive  a  tiger  out, 

And  let  a  hungrier  wolf  come  in." 

There,  look  at  that  sometimes,  Blanche,  not  only  now, 
but  in  after-life.  It  has  been  in  my  memory  lor  years. 

"  I  will,"  comes  from  her  trembling  lips. 

"Do  not  put  away  the  book  yet,  Blanche.  Do  you 
remember  Birdie's  sigh  this  morning?  When  tea  is 
over,  I  have  a  few  lines  to  write :  some  of  my  aflei- 
noon's  rhyming." 

The  evening  comes,  with  its  cheerful  fire-light,  for 
we  need  a  little  yet,  and  the  astral  throws  its  pleasant 
light  upon  the  table,  round  which  we  sit. 

Minnie  re-opens  the  book  she  was  reading,  and 
Blanche  finds  another,  whilst  I  take  from  the  book- 


IX     AMERICA.  45 

case  an  old  calf-covered  volume  of  Donne's  Sermons 
wherein  there  is  so  much  of  rare  worth  and  beauty. 

So  we  sit  and  read  till  bed-time,  when  I  take  up 
Blanche's  scrap-book  again,  wherein  is  written  in  fairy 
characters,  many  a  fugitive  gem  of  prose  and  verse, 
gathered  here  and  there,  as  they  have  struck  her 
fancy.  Their  burden  now  is  mainly  of  joy  and  love 
and  hope.  Wm  they  be  less  shadowy  hereafter — 
those  sunshiny  pages  ?  Who  can  tell ! 

Blanche  shows  me  where  I  may  write  my  pffusion, 
%nd  it  is  soon  indited. 


BIRDIE  S    SIGH. 

Child !  I  heard  thee  sadly  sigh, 
Midst  thy  trifles  playing : 

Still,  no  tear-drop  from  thine  eye, 
Down  thy  cheek  is  straying. 

Dost  thou  know  a  secret  grief 

In  thine  infant  bosom  ? 
Like  the  frost  on  bursting  leaf, 

Or  on  tender  blossom  ? 

Soon  enough  thy  heart  will  be 
Conversant  with  sorrow ; 

Now  thy  day  is  full  of  glee, 
With  as  glad  a  morrow. 


46  RURAL     LIFE* 

Like  the  bee  amidst  the  flowers 
Pass  that  day  in  gladness  ; 

Soon  enough  will  come  the  hours, 
Bearing  pain  and  sadness. 

Yet  that  little  sigh  of  thine, 
Was  to  me  a  blessing, 

On  this  wayward  heart  of  mine, 
Sober  truth  impressing. 


IN     AMERICA. 


47 


VI. 

THE  early  rains  and  late  blighting  frosts  are  over, 
and  on  the  bright  weeks  of  Spring  we  are  gliding 
rapidly  towards  Summer.  The  early  fruits  have  begun 
to  ripen,  and  the  gardens  and  fields  promise  opulent 
returns  to  the  labor  of  the  husbandman. 

Blanche  lias  already  been  a  week  at  her  uncle's 
place,  Glen-Clunie,  a  day's  travel  westward,  and  we 
are  anxiously  awaiting  her  return.  The  house  seems 
gloomy,  in  a  degree,  when  her  gay  laugh  is  not  ring 
ing  through  it. 

Minnie  says,  this  is  a  foretaste  of  what  is  to  be 
hereafter ;  for  when  Frank  comes  back  from  his  travels, 
she  is  to  be  married.  We  can  hardly  realize  it  ;  for  a 
year  or  two  ago,  she  was  a  fairy-like  girl,  just  from 
school. 

"  Standing  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet ; 
Womanhood  and  childhood  sweet." 

Now,  almost  a  woman,  accomplished  and  beautiful, 
she  is  worthy  of  all  the  love  that  can  be  lavished  on 
her  by  the  heart  of  man. 


43  RURAL     LIFE 

It  is  a  soft  star-lit  evening,  and  we  sit  on  the  porch, 
now  festooned  with  twining  and  odorous  creepeis,  and 
listen  to  the  sounds  which  form  our  out-door  melodies  : 
the  occasional  chirp  of  a  sleepless  bird  upon  its  nest 
in  the  sweet-briar ;  the  bell  on  the  factory  at  Bridge- 
valley  striking  the  quarter-hours  ;  the  murmur  of 
waters  ;  the  breeze-whisperings,  and  now  and  then  the 
hoot  of  the  owl  in  farmer  Mead's  woods. 

Birdie's  little  "  chippy,"  doubtless  listens  to  the  last 
ominous  sound,  its  heart  throbbing  with  all  a  mother's 
anxieties. 

We  have  been  to  Briar-Cliff  to  day  :  a  deserted  old 
mansion  of  which  we  had  frequently  heard,  and  long 
desired  to  see.  It  is  five  miles  inland,  and  a  pleasant 
drive  most  of  the  distance  along  the  post  road. 

We  had  started  soon  after  breakfast  from  home,  and 
spent  some  hours  there,  wandering  over  the  desolated 
grounds.  The  approach  to  the  mansion  is  by  a  short 
and  narrow  lane  leading  from  the  main  road,  and  going 
no  farther  than  the  enclosure  of  the  property. 

We  entered  the  unclosed  gate-way,  flanked  by 
massive  stone  pillars,  leaning  and  defaced  ;  and  keep 
ing  the  gravelled  road,  now  overgrown  with  grass  and 
weeds,  a  drive  of  a  few  hundred  yards  brought  us  to 
the  house. 

It  stands  amidst  majestic  locust  and  chestnut  trees, 
mingled  with  indigenous  evergreens,  under  which  is  a 


IN     AMERICA.  49 

level  sward,  sloping  and  undulating,  which  must  have 
been  a  beautiful  lawn ;  but  now  covered  with  long, 
waving  grass  and  underbrush.  At  a  little  distance 
from  the  rear  of  the  house,  you  stand  upon  the  edge 
of  a  cliff  and  look  down  into  a  glen,  full  of  dense 
verdure,  and  holding  in  its  bosom  a  deep,  dark  pond 
of  living  water.  The  sides  of  the  cliff,  steep  and 
rugged,  are  covered  with  tangled  briars  and  creepers, 
and  from  this  the  place  derives  its  name. 

It  was  melancholy  to  wTalk  the  long,  winding  paths 
of  the  once  beautiful  garden,  now  a  wilderness  of  rank 
weeds.  Choice  fruit  trees  and  luxuriant  grape  vines 
were  left  unpruned,  and  threw  their  straggling  branches 
far  and  wide,  yet  giving  promise  of  fruit  in  abundance. 
In  the  pleasure  grounds,  a  few  hardy  plants  wyere  still 
living  and  blossoming ;  but  everywhere  else  was 
nothing  but  desolation  and  gloom. 

The  house  was  closed,  though  the  frail  door  could 
have  been  easily  burst  open.  It  was  no  less  dilapidated 
than  the  out-buildings  which  surround  it,  though  it 
bore  witness  to  the  action  of  fire  upon  one  of  its  wings, 
probably  at  a  remote  time.  There  was  no  living  thing 
upon  tha  premises,  except  the  birds  and  squirrels, 
which  sing  and  gambol  undisturbed  in  fearless  freedom. 

We  have  never  heard  the  full  history  of  those  who 
once  lived  there,  and  we  wondered  why  it  was  deserted, 

and  that  no  one  had  ever  been  tempted  to  purchase 
4 


50  RURALLIFK 

and  restore  the  property  to  its  former  beauty,  for  it 
has  evidently  been  highly  improved  at  no  inconsidera 
ble  expense  and  labor. 

As  we  emerged  from  the  avenue  into  the  lane,  on 
our  way  homeward,  we  noticed  a  small  cottage,  which 
had  escaped  us  before,  almost  hid  from  view  by  a 
hedge  of  willows  on  the  road  side.  It  was  not  far 
from  the  gate-way  we  had  just  passed  through,  and 
had  probably  been  a  lodge  or  tenant  house  attached  to 
Briar-Cliff  mansion. 

An  old,  decrepid  man  sat  on  the  door-step,  watch 
ing  a  sportive  child  playing  with  a  kitten  on  the  grass 
before  him.  He  seemed  to  be  dreaming  of  his  own 
youthful  days,  if  we  might  judge  by  his  listless  expres 
sion  and  disregard  of  our  passing. 

I  proposed  to  stop  under  pretence  of  giving  Charley 
a  draught  of  water  from  the  well  near  by,  thinking  we 
might  gain  some  information  concerning  the  spot  we 
had  been  visiting. 

Minnie,  none  the  less  curious,  assented ;  so,  tying 
the  horse  by  the  fence,  we  entered  the  picket  gate 
amidst  the  willows.  The  child,  probably  unaccus 
tomed  to  the  sight  of  strangers,  left  its  sport  and  ran 
into  the  house  crying.  The  old  man  essayed  to  rise, 
and  respectfully  asked  us  into  the  house,  but  I  insisted 
on  his  not  disturbing  himself,  as  we  only  stopped  for  a 
moment.  "  Ay,  but  ye  must  sit,"  said  he  ;  "  Jenny  ! 


IN     AMERICA.  5v 

bring  a  chair  for  the  people  !"  he  continued,  to  som*i 
one  inside.  It  was  brought  by  Jenny,"  a  woman  of 
middle  age,  cleanly  and  neatly  dressed,  whom  we 
rightly  supposed  was  his  married  daughter,  and  the 
mother  of  the  child  that  was  playing  in  the  yard.  We 
could  not  but  accept  the  cheerfully  proffered  hospi 
tality  of  the  strangers,  and  Minnie  took  the  seat  while 
I  watered  Charley. 

On  my  return,  I  found  Minnie  and  old  grandfather  well 
acquainted,  for  he  appeared  to  be  communicative  in  the 
extreme  ;  so  much  so,  that  his  listener  could  not  put 
in  a  question,  even  if  it  was  necessary.  I  sat  down  on 
the  door-step  near  him  and  listened  for  a  while  too,  but 
his  subject  was  irrelevant  to  the  one  I  wished  to  be 
informed  on,  and  I  let  him  edify  Minnie  whilst  my 
inquiries  were  addressed  to  "  Jenny."  This  did  not 
suit  the  old  man  though  ;  he  wanted  to  give  all  the 
information  himself. 

"Ay,  ye  want  to  know  about  the  old  house  up  there, 
do  ye  ?  I  know  all  about  it,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  he 
heard  our  conversation. 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  we  have  been  there  this  morning 
for  the  first  time,  and  are  a  little  curious  about  it." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  ye.  I  was  a  boy  about  here  when 
they  builded  the  big  house  there,  and  a  power  of 
men  was  at  it,  a-workin'  on  it  ;  I  said  I  was  a  boy, 
some  twenty-two  or  three,  thereabout ;  we  wasn't 


52  BURALLIFE 

men  then  right  out  of .  school ;  and  I  worked  at  car 
pentering  with  old  Boss  Jones,  dead,  you  know. 
Well,  I  worked  on  the  house  odd  spells,  when  dad 
wasn't  harvesting  or  makin'  cider,  and  I  knows  about 
the  house,  roof  to  cellar.  When  it  was  done,  there 
was  nary  a  house  in  the  country  about,  near  it.  Oh  ! 
dear  me  ;  the  rooms,  and  the  closets,  and  the  cupboards, 
and  sich  a  hall !  all  carved  and  painted  like,  what  d'ye 
call  it  ?  friscoes  ;  I  forget,  it's  so  long  gone.  IIow- 
somever,  they  was  grand  folks  what  came  in  coaches 
when  it  was  done,  and  sich  furniture  and  trampeiy  as 
they  brought,  too,  among  us  farmers  and  sich  like  ,  and 
sich  horses,  big  and  slick,  and  black  men  to  mind  and 
drive  'em.  There  was  an  old  man  and  his  wile  and 
two  boys,  about  twenty-five  and  thirty,  liice  you,  sir, 
or  thereabouts  ;  and  they  were  wild  enough  too — made 
the  mud  and  dust  fly  on  yon  road  there.  People  said 
they'd  been  over  the  sea  and  got  forrin  ways  ;  I  don't 
know,  but  they  used  to  talk  of  their  grand-dad  bein'  an 
Englishman,  and  a  lord,  too.  In  summers  there  was 
loads  of  company  from  the  city,  and  they  lived  high  at 
the  Hall,  we  called  it ;  plenty  wine,  and  fruits  in  the 
garden,  lots  of  it,  and  to  spare  :  look  at  it  now,  goin'  to 
waste." 

"  My  good  friend,"  said  I,  for  the  old  man  had  stopped 
a  minute  to  get  breath,  "  we  do  not  want  to  tire  you, 
only  tell  us  lhe  reason  why  no  one  lives  there  now, 


IN     AM  ERICA.  53 

why  some  one  does  not  buy  it  and  put  it  in  order  ;  there 
are  always  purchasers  to  be  found  for  such  places. 
Who  holds  the  property  ?" 

"  Well,  have  patience.  I'll  tell  you  in  time,  sir  ;  you 
must  know  whys  and  wherefores,  always.  Ye  see,  the 
old  man  took  sick  after  he  lived  there  a  spell,  mortal 
sick,  and  doctors,  city  doctors  couldn't  save  him  ;  so  he 
died.  A  great  funeral  that  was  ;  he  wasn't  buried 
hereabouts  ;  some  big  church-yard  irrthe  city;  Trinity, 
I  believe  ;  and  then  the  old  lady  lived  with  the  boys  ; 
but  they  was  away  a  good  deal,  and  she  was  lonesome, 
very,  only  an  old  nurse  with  her  betimes  ;  and  then 
she  pined  away,  and  went  after  the  old  man  ;  and  the 
boys  had  it  all  their  own  way  awhile,  till  they  got 
quarrelling  about  money  matters,  and  went  to  law,  and 
the  old  place  'gan  to  go  to  rack,  and  the  servants  wasted 
every  thing. 

"  That  was  fifteen  years  ago,  or  thereabouts  ;  time 
goes  so  fast  now,  these  old  days  !  Well,  the  law  giv 
the  Hall  to  one  on 'em,  the  oldest,  and  then,  arter  that, 
the  other  never  come  here  again  ;  they  said  he  went 
over  the  sea  to  live.  I  never  saw  him  more.  And  the 
one  what  lived  there  was  always  gloomy  like  ;  he 
never  liked  no  one,  and  people  hereabout  never  liked 
him,  he  was  so  irrum  and  short.  The  boys  called  him 
Old  Grum'  arter  a  while,  and  he  sent  off  all  the  ser 
vants  but  one  white-headed  negro,  black  enough  too  ; 


64  RURAL     LIFE 

the  boys  about  called  him  '  Guinny,'  for  he  told  'em 
he  came  from  there  when  he  was  a  youngster.  He 
used  to  cook  vittles  for  the  master,  and  work  in  the 
garden,  and  do  all  sorts  of  work  and  chores  around. 
Well,  by  this  time,  the  young  man  that  was  had  got  to 
be  nigh  fifty  or  thereabouts,  and  he  takes  a  notion  the 
house  was  hanted,  and  he  had  a  room  made  out-doors 
somewhere,  and  shut  up  the  old  house,  and  made  old 
'  Guinny  '  sleep  at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  People  got  to 
say  he  was  a  miser,  and  only  eat  bread  and  cheese, 
and  sich  like,  and  put  his  silver,  all  he  could  get,  in 
holes  and  rags,  and  sich  places.  He  looked  poor 
enough,  skin  and  bone,  and  the  old  nigger  not  much 
better ;  he  was  a  true  friend  though  ;  old  Guinny  never 
said  a  hard  word  about  the  man. 

"  Sometimes,  there  would  be  people  come  from  the 
city  to  hee  the  miser,  but  by  and  by  they  stopped  ;  he 
didn't  want  to  see  nary  body.  He  took  sick  too,  one 
winter,  when  he  wouldn't  have  fire,  and  no  doctor 
either  afterward  ;  and  he  lay  so  a  while,  till  it  got  on 
his  lungs,  and  he  didn't  last  long. 

"  Old  Guinny  was  with  him  when  he  wrent,  and  cried 
like  a  baby  too  ;  and  when  word  got  to  the  city  of  his 
death,  some  old  friends  come  up  and  took  him  down 
to  where  the  old  folks  was  buried  ;  and  then  they  sent 
word  to  his  brother,  and  after  two  or  three  months,  or 
thereabouts,  they  had  a  great  vandoo  at  the  Hall  ;  but 


IN     AMERICA.  55 

his  own  brother  wasn't  there,  only  folks  from  the  city 
and  towns  about.  There  was  heaps  of  rubbish,  and 
what  money  the  lawyer  found,  what  old  Guinny  had 
safe  laid  by,  he  took  to  keep,  I  s'pose,  for  the  other 
one  ;  and  so  no  one  has  been  in  the  house  since. 
People  about  here  won't  go  there  ;  they  say  it's  hanted. 
Boys  go  there  in  day-times  to  get  the  fruit  when  it's 
ripe  ;  they  wont  go  there  of  nights  though.  I  s'pose 
the  brother  what's  away  hasn't  come  back  yet,  and  so 
they  don't  sell  the  old  place.  It  got  afire  once  too, 
and  burnt  some,  but  not  much  ;  some  boys  was 
'spected  of  it.  I'd  tell  ye  great  stories  of  doin's  there, 
if  ye'd  wait  a  while,  or  come  again,  but  I  guess  that's 
enough  now." 

"Yes,"  replied  Minnie,  "that  will  do,  my  old  friend, 
perhaps  we  will  have  another  talk  the  next  time  we 
come."  We  both  acknowledged  our  tnanks,  but  the 

O  ' 

old  man  would  not  let  us  go  till  we  ate  a  piece  of  bread 
and  butter,  and  drank  a  glass  of  buttermilk  right  out 
of  the  churn,  which  we  did  with  great  relish. 

"  Jenny  "  told  us,  when  we  came  again,  her  husband, 
who  was  away  from  home  then,  would  take  us  down 
to  the  pond  we  had  seen  from  the  cliff,  and  catch  us  a 
mess  of  trout,  with  which  it  is  full,  notwithstanding  its 
frequent  dragging  by  the  boys  of  the  neighborhood.  It 
was  a  pleasant  hour  we  spent  with  the  garrulous  old 


56  RURAL     LIFE 

man,  and  he  seemed  to  live  over  the  bestpartof  hislife 
during-  the  jecital  of  his  tale. 

As  we  sit  on  the  porch  arid  talk  over  our  excursion, 
we  fancy  the  interest  with  which  Blanche,  who  is 
inclined  to  be  romantic,  would  visit  those  deserted 
grounds,  and  listen  to  the  narrative  of  our  superannu 
ated  informer. 

Strange  it  is,  that  in  this  enlightened  age  of  ours, 
this  short  life  too,  wherein  we  may  gather  and  cherish 
so  many  elements  of  true  happiness,  a  man  can  become 
the  vile  slave  of  accumulating  gold !  living  devoid  of 
every  comfort  to — 

"  Take  pleasure  in  his  abjectnes?,  and  hng 
The  scorpion  that  consumes  him." 


IN     AMERICA. 


VII. 

JUNE,  sweet,  leafy  June  has  come  !  bringing  roses 
and  strawberries,  and  other  pleasant  things,  among 
which,  last  but  far  from  least,  is  our  radiant  and  long 
absent  Blanche,  laden  with  gifts  and  messages  of  love 
from  our  kindred  at  Glen-Clunie. 

We  have  many  questions  to  ask  about  Nelly,  and 
Kate,  and  Bob,  just  from  college ;  and  in  return, 
Blanche  has  so  much  to  tell,  she  hardly  knows  where 
to  begin.  In  a  day  or  two,  however,  all  is  thought  of 
and  communicated,  and  Blanche  settles  down  again  to 
our  quiet  life,  yet  looking  forward  to  her  brother's  return 
with  no  little  anxiety. 

We  had  a  few  hurried  lines  from  him  yesterday, 
written  at  Naples,  as  he  was  embarking  for  the  Ionian 
Islands,  closing  thus  : — "  I  may  go  to  Egypt,  but  if 
I  do  not,  you  will  see  me  as  soon  as  a  letter  could 
reach  you."  Blanche  says  when  he  receives  her  letter, 
he  will  not  go  farther  east ;  it  will  bring  him  right 
home. 

Minnie  and  her  cousin  both  intimate  a  desire  to  go 
trout-fishing  to-day,  in  accordance  with  a  promise 


58  RURAL     LIFE 

made  some  weeks  ago,  and  which  I  had  not  forgotten. 
It  was  proposed  to  wait  till  the  afternoon,  when  the 
pool  would  be  more  shady,  and  the  walk  pleasanter  ; 
so  after  dinner  the  ladies  equipped  themselves  with 
sun-bonnets  and  stout  shoes,  and  were  soon  on  the  way 
to  Hermit's  Dell,  whilst  I  followed  their  tripping  feet, 
rearing  poles  and  all  necessary  accompaniments.  A  few 
minutes  walking  brought  us  into  the  shadows  of  the 
glen,  past  the  cabin  of  La  Solitaire  ;  along  the  brook 
side  till  we  crosssd  the  rustic  bridge  below  the  cascade, 
and  wound  our  way  up  the  steep  bank,  fragrant  with 
cedar  boughs,  to  the  brink  of  the  pool. 

My  companions  not  being  skilled  in  fly-fishing,  pre 
ferred  other  bait,  which  Teddy  had  provided,  and  I 
fixed  their  hooks  for  them.  Blanche,  entering  into  the 
sport  with  great  enthusiasm,  caught  the  first  fish,  and 
a  very  fine  one,  which  disengaged  itself  from  the  hook 
when  landed,  and  was  quickly  secured  in  the  basket. 
Minnie,  the  very  impersonation  of  patience,  reclined 
upon  the  bank,  waiting  for  a  bite  at  her  quiescent 
hook  ;  a  Minnie  catching  "  Minnies,"  for  her  first  fish 
was  one  of  those  diminutive  shiners  which  so  often 
annoy  the  angler  by  their  pertinacious  nibbles  at  his 
bait.  Minnie  has  no  fondness  for  the  craft ;  she  only 
came  to  keep  us  company.  Her  minnows,  however, 
did  me  good  service,  for  not  finding  my  fly  taking,  I 
substituted  a  live  fish,  and  was  very  successful.  In 


IN-AMERICA.  59 

two  hours  our  basket  was  full,  some  of  the  fish  weigh 
ing  nearly  a  pound,  though  we  followed  the  stream 
some  distance  from  the  pool,  before  we  took  them. 

Blanche  was  uncommonly  successful,  although  a 
novice  in  the  art,  taking  almost  as  many  as  I  did,  and 
taking  them  from  the  hook  herself  with  perfect  non 
chalance. 

There  are  some  beautiful  walks  through  the  sur 
rounding  woods,  which  we  had  never  explored,  so, 
when  we  became  tired  of  fishing,  we  took  a  long  stroll 
of  discovery,  embracing  quite  a  circuit. 

The  ridge  which  commences  at  Hermit's  Dell  runs 
for  miles  and  miles  eastward  from  the  river,  and  is 
covered  with  dense  woods,  most  of  which  are  primeval. 
Here  and  there  they  have  been  cut  off  by  their  owners, 
but  a  dense  second  growth  is  rapidly  filling  up  the 
openings. 

Where  a  little  spot  of  natural  meadow  lay  along  the 
stream,  we  came  upon  the  goats  which  belong  to  our 
neighbor  La  Solitaire ;  and  as  the  afternoon  was 
wearing  away,  they  were  browsing  homeward. 

It  was  quite  a  pastoral  picture,  and  we  could  almost 
imagine  ourselves  for  the  moment  amidst  Alpine  hills 
or  the  ridges  of  La  Cava,  and  we  wondered  if  it  might 
not  be  that  the  similitude  of  these  hills  and  streams  to 
those  of  her  native  land,  had  won  the  heart  and  feet 
r»f  the  Italian  woman  hither. 


60  RURAL     LIFE 

It  was  sundown  when  we  stood  upon  the  bridge 
again,  returning",  yet  lingering  awhile  to  watch  the 
foamy  waters  of  the  cascade,  and  feel  its  cool  spray 
upon  our  faces. 

The  cabin  of  La  Solitaire  lay  near  our  homeward 
path.  She  came  to  the  door  as  we  passed,  and  we 
were  inclined  to  stop  and  exchange  a  fe,v  words  with 
her,  the  first  opportunity  we  had  ever  had,  but  seem 
ing  to  be  in  dishabille,  she  retired  imvaid,  as  if  to 
avoid  an  interview. 

Blanche  was  much  disappointed,  for  it  \\as  the  first 
time  she  had  manifested  any  desire  to  approach  the 
stranger,  with  whose  appearance  she  was  evidently 
pleased  at  the  first  glance.  "  You  will  have  other 
opportunities,  Blanche,  and  I  expect  I  shall  introduce 
you,  after  all,  for  I  am  determined  to  know  something 
more  than  we  do  of  the  woman." 

"  Yes,  Harry,"  replies  Minnie,  "  you  are  quite 
famous  for  making  wonderful  acquaintances,  and  we 
must  depend  on  you  for  an  introduction  to  La  Solitaire." 

I  felt  a  little  chagrined  at  this  termination  to  our 
excursion,  for  my  sole  object  in  making  it,  was  to  get 
the  ladies  into  the  ijood  graces  of  our  neighbor,  whom 

~  O  O 

I,   for    some    undefined    reason,    had    always    felt    an 
interest  in.     Still,  though  she  appeared  unapproacha 
ble,  as  we  have  heard  she  was,  I  did  not  despair. 
When  we  reached  home,  Birdie  was  riding  his  pony 


IN     AMERICA.  61 

on  the  lawn,  under  the  guidance  of  Bridget,  and  the 
little  fellow  was  enjoying  himself  to  the  utmost.  Our 
approach  was,  however,  a  pretext  for  his  being  tired 
of  riding,  and  Shag  was  soon  in  the  back-ground. 

We  had  a  royal  supper  of  broiled  trout,  and  a  modi 
cum  of  strawberries,  the  first  of  the  season,  which 
Teddy's  sharp  eyes  had  discovered  in  the  sunniest 
portion  of  the  bed. 

Some  pleasant  neighbors  came  in  after  tea,  and  with 
a  stroll  along  the  river,  a  short  and  breezy  sail  to  the 
light-house  and  back,  and  a  little  music  at  the  house, 
the  evening  glides  away.  Not  our  evening  though, 
for  we  sit  an  hour  or  two  after  our  friends  leave, 
and  Blanche  listens  to  the  description  of  our  excursion 
to  the  deserted  domain  of  Briar  Cliff  with  great 
interest,  proposing,  when  Frank  arrives,  that  we  shall 
all  go  and  spend  a  day  there. 

Ah  !  Frank,  I  expect  you  will  be  valued  more  than 
ever,  when  you  return  ;  you  are  becoming  of  great 
importance  to  us,  in  more  ways  than  one  !  There  are 
even  half  a  dozen  bottles  of  that  amber  olive  oil 
reserved  for  your  enjoyment,  not  to  mention  the  spiced 
fish,  over  which,  with  our  rural  bread  and  butter  and 
a  bottle  of  "  Sauterne,"  we  shall  talk  away  many  a 
cosy,  lamp-lit  hour  ! 

"Is  the  day  fixed  yet,  Blanche,  rain  or  shine,  Frank 


62  RURALLIFE 

or  no  Frank  ?  Come,  you  have  kept  your  secret  long 
enough."  Blanche's  reply  is  non-committal,  though  I 
shall  probably  be  informed.  "  Don't  ask  me,  cousin, 
Minnie  knows ;"  and  the  next  sound  I  hear  is  my 
favorite  "  Don  Pasquale,"  with  a  new  and  brilliant 
after-piece,  something  she  has  brought  from  Glen- 
Clunie. 

Minnie  whispers  that  R ,  our  prospective  cousin, 

intends  visiting  us  soon,  and  as  he  is  one  of  us  already, 
lie  will  be  welcome  as  ever  to  this  our  country  home. 
How  doubly  happy  Blanche  will  be  ' 


IN     AMERICA. 


63 


VIII. 

LEANING  over  the  pool  whose  full  bosom  nurses  the 
sportive  rapids,  there  is  a  massive  rock,  from  the 
crevices  of  which,  dense  cedars  spring  and  mingle, 
forming  an  arbor  almost  impervious  to  the  wind  or  sun. 
It  is  a  favorite  resort  of  mine,  and  sitting  there  in  the 
breezy  afternoons  of  June,  I  while  away  many  an 
hour  in  enticing  the  silver  trout  from  their  cool  nooks 
below,  by  means  of  worm  or  fly  too  tempting  for  their 
epicurean  taste  to  resign. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  I  won  the 
acquaintance  of  La  Solitaire's  child.  He  had  been 
searching  the  woods  for  the  goats,  and  attracted  by  the 
vild  flowers  which  grow  in  such  profusion  along  the 
margin  of  the  stream,  unconsciously  drew  near  to 
where  I  was  sitting. 

The  cast  of  my  line  upon  the  water  first  apprised 
him  of  my  presence.  Unaccustomed  to  strangers,  he 
started  back  half  affrighted,  but  a  kind  word  or  two 
and  the  proffer  of  a  live  fish  in  his  hand%  brought  him 
to  rny  side  and  we  were  soon  triends.  The  remarka 
ble  beauty  of  the  boy  somewhat  surprised  me  ;  it 
seemed  so  inconsistent  with  the  humble  and  secluded 


64  RURAL     LIFE 

life  in  which  he  was  nurtured.  Not  that  there  is  loss 
of  loveliness  to  be  found  amid  the  by-ways  than  the 
highways  of  the  world,  but  there  was  a  light  in  his 
dark  eye  and  an  expression  about  his  lip  which  spoke 
of  a  spirit  that,  when  cognizant  of  its  strength  and 
fitness,  would  demand  a  far  wider  sphere  for  the  exer 
cise  of  its  powrers. 

Amused  and  made  wiser  by  his  childish  prattle,  the 
twilight  was  deepening  before  we  started  homeward, 
but  a  walk  of  a  few  minutes  brought  us  into  the  glen. 
The  goats  which  had  found  their  way  homeward  were 
already  enclosed  for  the  night,  as  descending  the  hill 
side  we  looked  down  upon  the  cabin  ;  and  there  in  the 
door-way  sat  the  child's  mother  watching  for  him,  and 
wondering,  no  doubt,  the  cause  of  his  delay.  Coming 
as  we  did  from  an  opposite,  or  rather  angular  direction 
to  that  in  which  she  was  looking,  we  were  not  seen 
till  nearly  at  the  house.  Though  rny  first  near  meeting 
with  the  woman,  who  had  been  to  me  an  enigma,  I  was 
not  wholly  a  stranger  to  her,  for  she  had  seen  me  fre 
quently  pass  her  dwelling  in  my  strolls'  through  the 
valley.  First  offering  me  a  seat,  she  gently  chided 
the  boy  for  his  long  absence,  but  for  which  I  apolo 
gized,  as  being  perhaps  the  cause  of  it.  No  one  could 
mistake  the  parentage  of  the  child  on  seeing  his 
mother  ;  his  were  the  same  dark  eyes  and  hair,  the 
same  glowing  complexion,  in  everything  alike  except 


IN     AM  ERICA.  65 

form  and  accent.  It  needed  no  very  skilful  ear  to 
discover  that  she  was  of  foreign  birth  or  parentage ; 
I  fancied  her  an  Italian  from  the  flowing  softness  of 
her  accent,  and  her  physical  peculiarities ;  and  my 
impressions  were  strengthened  when  I  surveyed  the 
apartment  in  which  I  sat.  It  was  small  and  scantily 
furnished,  but  scrupulously  neat  and  clean.  A  plaster 
statuette  of  the  Virgin  and  child  stood  upon  the  man 
tel-shelf,  and  over  it  hung  a  highly  colored  but  coarse 
picture  of  Guido's  Magdalen  delle  radici,  whose  origi 
nal  I  had  seen  in  the  Sciarra  palace  at  Rome.  These 
objects  bespoke  her  religion,  and  they  may  be  her 
comfort  too,  if  her  faith  in  them  is  sincere.  'As  I  rose 
to  depart,  my  eyes  were  momentarily  attracted  by 
what  appeared  to  be  a  picture  shrouded  in  black  mus 
lin  and  hanging  in  a  sort  of  cupboard  or  recess  beside 
the  chimney.  It  stimulated  my  curiosity,  but  appear 
ing  not  to  notice  it,  I  took  my  leave  only  to  await  with 
feverish  anxiety  another  interview. 

It  was  evident  to  my  mind  that  she  was  no  ordinary 
woman ;  that  whatever  she  might  be  now,  however 
humble  her  lot  or  employments,  she  had  or  should 
have  adorned  a  different  station  in  life  ;  and  so  the 
little  insight  I  had  accidentally  gained  of  our  myste 
rious  neighbor,  furnished  food  for  musing  on  my  lone 
some  walk  homeward.  I  strived  to  divine  what  acci 
dent  or  vagary  had  brought  this  woman  from  her 
5  ' 


66  RURAL     LIFE 

native  land  and  placed  her  here  in  comparative  soli- 
tude.  Was  it  some  deep  wrong,  or  disgrace,  or  poverty, 
or  a  misanthropic  spirit  ?  I  should  judge  from  my 
observation  it  was  neither  of  these.  It  might  be  then 

O 

some  deep  heart-sorrow;  for  grief  seeks  solitude  and 
looks  for  solace  often  "  from  Nature  up  to  Nature's 
God."  Better  that  it  were  so  than  otherwise,  and  it 
might  be  said  of  her  as  of  another,  when  seeking  the 
comfort  and  sympathy  man  could  not  give — 

"  She  found  it  on  the  breast 
Of  nature  kindly  ever;  there  she  leaned 

Sick,  worn  with  long  unrest, 
And  gladly  learned  she  was  her  child  nnweaned." 

So  Petrarch  found  healing  for  a  wounded  spirit  amidst 
the  shadows  of  Vaucluse. 

Another  hour,  and  sitting  on  the  knoll  which  over 
looks  the  river,  we  three,  the  congenial  spirits  of  our 
household,  enjoy  pleasant  converse.  It  is  one  of  those 
moon-lit,  delicious  eves  which  so  often  bless  our  Ameri 
can  June ;  when  it  seems  a  happiness  merely  to  live 
and  breathe  the  balmy  Southern  airs,  laden  as  they 
are  for  us  with  the  breath  of  roses  from  our  carefully 
tended  garden.  We  talk  of  old  Brindle  and  argue  if 
her  pretty  calf  had  better  be  weaned  and  put  in  order 
for  the  butcher.  I  decide  in  the  affirmative,  but 
Blanche  objects  on  account  of  its  beauty,  though  she 


IN    AMERICA'.  GT 

knows  we  require  more  cream  now,  as  strawberries 
are  ripening,  and  city  friends  are  to  help  us  eat  them. 
But  utility  finally  carries  the  point,  and  Brindle's 
nursling  is  sentenced ;  so  on  the  morrow  Teddy  will 
have  orders  accordingly. 

And  then  we  wonder  if  the  meadow  by  the  creek  will 
yield  hay  enough  this  season  to  keep  old  Charley  and 
Brindle  and  Birdie's  pony  through  the  winter,  not  for 
getting  the  two  South-down  cossets  we  keep  tethered 
on  the  lawn  ;  but  the  decision  on  this  question  is  de 
ferred  till  after  the  change  of  the  moon,  which  the 
almanac  presages  will  bring  dry  weather. 

A  little  distance  down  the  road  that  skirts  the  river 
bank,  there  is  a  low  red  house  in  which  old  Jimmy 
Pike,  the  fisherman,  lives.  He  has  a  daughter  wasting 
away  with  consumption,  and  the  doctor  says  she  can 
not  last  long.  We  see  a  light  glimmering  from  her 
chamber  window,  and  now  and  then  discern  the  form 
of  her  old  mother,  bowed  by  grief  and  years,  moving 
about  the  room,  busied  in  tending  the  child  who  should 
have  been  the  staff  of  her  age.  We  often  send  trifling 
delicacies  to  the  sick  girl ;  but  our  sympathies  are 
freshly  awakened,  and  thinking  what  a  treat  a  bowl  of 
strawberries  would  be  to  the  fevered  invalid,  our  tender 
hearted  cousin  promises  to  pick  them  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  fresh  and  cool,  and  take  them  to  her  with  some 
new  cream. 


68  RURAL     LIFE 

As  the  evening  wears  on  into  the  early  night,  we 
hear  far  away  amidst  the  river  hills  the  faint  echoes 
of  revolving  paddles,  heralding  the  approach  of  boat** 
going  northward  from  the  city  ;  and  soon  we  see  their 
colored  lights  emerging  from  between  the  mountains, 
as  they  speed  their  way  like  spirits  of  the  night. 

What  a  varied  and  priceless  freight  they  bear  ! 
Youth  and  age — rich  and  poor ;  hearts,  gay  and  boun-1 
ing  with  hope — heavy  with  grief  and  despair  ;  forms, 
fair  and  graceful — bowed  by  disease  and  years  ;  some, 
seeking  pleasure  and  change — others  searching  for  a 
home  and  rest.  But  they  have  passed  like  a  dream, 
and  all  is  still  again  but  the  measured  ripple  of  the 
tide,  the  breeze  whispering  amid  the  tree-tops,  and, 
above  all,  the  dash  of  falling  waters  away  in  the  depths 
of  Hermit's  Dell. 

We  think  and  speak  of  Frank,  and  wondei  if  we 
shall  hear  from  him  again,  and  in  what  "  haunts  of  old 
romance"  his  feet  may  wander  now.  He  may  be  arnid 
the  Doric  ruins  of  Greece,  or  within  the  shadows  of 
the  Pyramids ;  but  wherever  he  is,  our  thoughts  are 
with  him. 

So  we  sit  and  talk  musingly  till  the  moon  sinks  be 
hind  the  western  hills,  and  then  loiter  houseward  to 
close  our  eyes  within  that  dreamy  realm,  whose  far 
niente  is  more  perfect  than  that  of  Parthenope 


TN     AMERICA.  69 


IX. 

FRANK  is  here  at  last,  and  our  first  intimation  of  his 
arrival  was  his  well-known  shout  under  our  chamber 
window  at  sun-rise  this  morning.  I  was  up  and  half 
dressed,  for  it  is  my  custom  in  summer  to  be  out  of 
doors  early ;  yet  I  was  startled  and  surprised,  and  Minnie 
none  the  less  so.  In  a  minute  I  was  at  the  door. 
"  Harry  ! "  "  Frank  !  why,  my  dear  fellow  how  are 
you  ?  "  was  our  mutual  exclamation. 

"  Why,  Frank,  what  brought  you  here  at  this  time 
of  day  ?  How  did  you  get  here  ?" 

The  story  was  soon  told  ;  he  had  taken  the  night 
boat  from  the  city,  and  consequently  reaching  our 
landing  at  a  late  hour,  was  obliged  to  remain  at  the 
miserable  tavern  there  till  daylight. 

"  Well,  how  are  Blanche  and  Minnie  and  B.rdie  ? " 

But  before  I  can  reply  they  are  in  the  room,  and 
Blanche  in  her  brother's  arms,  laughing  and  crying  at 
a  great  rate. 

"  Why,  brother,  we  never  expected  you  so  soon," 
says  Blanche,  "  though  you  have  been  among  the 
Turks,  too ;  just  look  at  his  beard  !" 


70  RURAL     LIFE 

Sure  enough,  Blanche  might  think  so,  for  Frank's 
beard  and  moustache  would  be  the  pride  of  a  Mussul 
man  ;  it  looked  like  a  six  month's  growth. 

We  were  all  so  excited  and  had  so  many  questions 
to  ask,  all  at  once,  breakfast  was  served  before  Frank 
thought  of  his  toilet.  This  was  soon  attended  to,  and 
we  gathered  round  the  table — four  as  congenial  spirits 
as  might  be  found  under  one  roof. 

"  Oh  !  how  often  I  have  thought  of  you  all,"  said 
Frank ;  "  how  much  I  have  dreamed  of  you !  ami 
Blanche  ;  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  play  truant,  and 
run  away  before  I  got  home.  How  much  longer  could 
I  have  trusted  you  ?  " 

"Now,  Frank,  we  will  talk  about  that  some  other 
time  ;  you  know  I  am  always  guided  by  you." 

"  Yes,  but  we  are  told  love  laughs  at  bolts  and 
wards  ;  how  is  it,  Harry  ? " 

"  It  is  so  sometimes,  Frank,  but  Blanche  has  been 
very  reasonable  ;  a  little  melancholy  once  in  a  while  ; 
but  it  is  all  over  now,  is  it  not,  Blanche  ? " 

"  Yes,  cousin,  that  verse  you  wrote  in  my  index 
rerum  cured  me  ;  I  shall  never  forget  it ;  and  Frank 
must  see  it  too." 

After  breakfast,  Blanche  monopolized  her  brother 
for  an  hour  or  two,  whilst  I  attended  to  my  various 
engagements  about  the  place.  There  are  dead  fruit 
trees  to  be  rooted  up,  at  which  Teddy  is  busy  ;  and 


IN     AMERICA. 


71 


the  long-  shoots  of  the  grape  vines  want  guiding  aright ; 
always  something  to  be  done  or  thought  of  even  on  our 
limited  possessions. 

There  is  an  unsightly  heap  of  rock,  too,  which  im 
pedes  somewhat  of  a  view  southward  from  the  house, 
which  must  be  quarried  out,  and  converted  into  a  wall 
to  divide  the  pasture  lot.  The  surrounding  ground 
must  be  graded  into  a  lawn,  which  will  be  enlarged 
in  consequence ;  and  so  one  improvement  suggests 
another. 

But  Blanche  has  finished  her  private  confab  and 
gone  into  the  house,  leaving  Frank  to  stroll  about  with 
me  till  dinner-time. 

We  go  to  the  barn-yard  and  descant  upon  the  meriti» 
of  Brindle  junior,  whom  the  butcher  is  to  take  away 
to-morrow  ;  then  to  the  stable  where  Charley  and  Shag 
are  domiciled,  and  so  away  to  the  pasture  lot,  of  which 
Brindle  is  sole  possessor.  Tts  extremity  is  bounded  by 
the  belt  of  woods,  through  which  the  white  farm-house 
of  our  neighbor  Mead  is  plainly  descernible,  and  in  the 
adjoining  field,  the  industrious  old  man  himself,  plough 
ing  his  corn.  He  is  a  perfect  pattern  of  a  farmer — • 
never  idle — and  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  his  only  son, 
who  is  an  erratic  genius,  does  not  possess  the  enter 
prise  of  his  father. 

We  sit  down  under  the  spreading  chestnut,  my 
favorite  seat  here,  and  enjoy  the  fair  landscape  before 


72  EUliALLIFE 

and  around  us.  Memories  of  past  days  throng  our 
spirits,  and  we  talk  over  our  wanderings  together,  the 
joys  of  the  present  and  the  hopes  of  the  future,  with 
all  the  license  of  long-tried  friendship.  I  reveal  to 
him  my  interview  with  the  divinity  of  Hermit's  Dell, 
and  the  discoveries  I  had  made  in  her  lowly  cabin, 
not  spoken  of  before  to  Minnie  or  Blanche,  for  some 
good  reason  of  my  own.  As  we  walk  homeward,  1 
take  him  to  a  point  whence  he  can  look  down  into  the 
glen,  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  cascade's  foam 
through  the  dense  foliage,  and  the  lofty  branches  of 
the  elm  which  overhang  the  dwelling  of  La  Solitaire. 

It  is  a  fair  sight ;  and  he  wonders  not  that  I  have 
made  it  so  frequent  a  theme  in  my  letters  ;  he  must 
visit  its  recesses  to-morrow. 

"  Yes,  Frank,  you  shall  go  ;  we  will  all  go,  and 
jtrive  to  unveil  the  mystery  which  shrouds  the  lonely 
dweller  there." 

Dinner  is  ready  when  we  reach  home,  arid  Frank 
tastes  for  the  first  time  his  Florentine  oil,  which  like 
the  finest  Neapolitan  maccaroni,  is  seldom  found  on 
Italian  tables ;  the  best  is  sent  abroad. 

"It  is  the  way  of  the  world,  Frank,  even  a  prophet 
is  not  without  honor,  save  in  his  own  country." 

During  the  afternoon,  Frank  and  I  drive  to  the 
landing  after  his  choicest  trunk,  which  he  had  ordered 
to  be  sent  after  him,  and  in  whose  contents,  both 


IN     AMERICA.  73 

Minnie  and  Blanche  have  considerable  interest.  We 
return  in  due  time,  bringing  the  repository  of  treasures, 
and  it  is  opened  in  the  presence  of  many  witnesses. 

Snugly  packed  away  amidst  layers  of  clothing,  are 
numerous  little  packets,  marked  with  the  names  of  the 
recipients — to  be. 

Blanche  has  several  and  Minnie  her  share  also, 
whilst  mine  comes  from  the  bottom,  an  elegant  mo 
rocco  case,  enclosing  a  splendidly  mounted  hunting- 
knife. 

"  Many  thanks,  my  brother  Nimrod,  for  this  reminder 
of  our  deer-hunts  away  on  the  Beaverkill,  it  may  do 
us  service  yet ;  but  no,  it  is  too  handsome  for  use," 
Minnie  has  unrolled  her  parcel,  and  displays  a  dress 
for  Birdie  of  real  "  McGregor"  plaid,  marvellously 
fine.  Frank  says,  he  had  to  laugh  when  he  read  my 
letter  conveying  to  him  our  various  commissions,  Min 
nie's  was  so  very  modest.  But  that  is  not  all  belong 
ing  to  her  ;  another  wrapper  contains  a  choice  cameo 
from  Rome,  and  a  set  of  corals  for  Birdie. 

Blanche  is  also  well  supplied  ;  she  has  her  lava 
ornaments,  her  embroidered  slippers  redolent  with 
genuine  attar  of  rose  from  the  gardens  of  Stamboul , 
and  in  addition,  some  spider-web  laces  from  Mechlin. 

"  How  apropos  !  brother,  you  are  very  kind  and 
thoughtful,  and  all  in  such  good  taste,"  says  Blanche. 

We  all  acknowledge  our  thanks  to  Frank  for  his 


74  RURAL     LIFE 

gifts  and  his  judicious  selection  of  them  ;  but  there 
are  some  other  parcels  for  Glen-Clunie,  which  he 
unseals  for  our  inspection,  evincing  no  less  taste  and 
judgment. 

There  are  some  things  of  his  own  too,  in  the  custom 
house,  \vhich  we  shall  see  at  some  future  time.  A 
choice  copy  of  "  the  Cenci,"  and  Carlo  Dolce's  Mag 
dalen,  and  some  others,  which  all  travellers  love  to 
remember,  with  alabasters  and  bronzes  and  other 
"  knick-knacks,"  as  he  calls  them 

Evening  again,  and  Frank  is  with  us  !  We  sit  in 
the  vine-shaded  arbor  on  the  knoll,  and  remember  that 
it  is  almost  eight  months  since  he  was  last  with  us, 
just  previous  to  his  sailing. 

We  cannot  realize  it,  neither  can  he,  when  he 
recounts  to  us  the  many  spots  of  interest,  and  the 
various  countries  he  has  visited  during  the  time. 

o 

From  England  to  Italy  and  Turkey,  through  the 
intermediate  central  and  southern  countries  of  Europe, 
he  has  travelled,  and  returned  to  us  full  of  informa 
tion,  not  ephemeral  and  superficial,  but  lasting  and 
solid.  With  all  his  enthusiastic  love  for  the  beautiful, 
not  only  in  Nature,  but  in  Art,  it  has  been  to  him  a 
tour  of  highest  profit  and  pleasure  ;  few  would  enjcy 
it  more. 

The  evening  wanes,  and  night  comes.     Minnie  and 


IN     AMERICA.  75 

Blanche  have  left  us,  yet  we  linger  on  the  porch,  fra 
grant  with  the  smoke  from  our  choice  cheroots  :  some 
Frank  brought  from  the  East. 

We  speak  softly  of  Blanche's  approaching  marriage, 
and  of  arrangements  connected  therewith  ;  of  his  future 
prospects  and  hopes,  none  the  less  interesting;  of  a 
country-seat  not  far  from  us  that  he  has  heard  may  be 
purchased,  and  of  many  other  matters  important  to 
none  but  ourselves. 

As  Frank  speaks  of  a  country-seat  for  sale,  I  men 
tion  Briar  Cliff,  and  wonder  if  it  may  not  be  the  iden 
tical  property  of  which  he  has  heard.  We  will  soon 
see,  and  if  so,  how  very  pleasant  for  us  both,  should  it 
fall  into  my  friend's  hands.  He  has  roamed  and  roved 
enough  now,  and  longs  to  settle  down  in  some  quiet 
nook  like  ours,  yet  near  enough  to  the  city  for  occa 
sional  visits. 

';  I  am  tired  of  single-blessedness  too,  Harry,  but 
you  must  not  betray  my  prospects  on  this  score  yet ; 
it  is  all  sub  rose." 

"  No,  Frank,  but  do  not  put  the  day  off  any  longer 
than  necessary  ;  believe  me,  you  will  never  think  it 
came  tod  soon,  afterward.  Profit  by  a  friend's  advice 
and  experience.  Be  a  bachelor  no  longer." 

Stopping  in  the  library  before  we  retire,  a  cold  sup 
per,  nicely  spread,  greets  our  eyes,  and  over  the  spiced 
anchovies,  crisp  salad,  sweet  bread  and  butter,  and 


76  RURALLIFE 

iced  sauterne,  we  sit  till  the  small  hours  commence, 
and  Minnie  raps  on  the  floor  overhead. 

"  To  Hermit's  Dell  to-morrow,  Frank,  with  the 
ladies!" 

"  Yes,  and  to  Briar  Cliff  before  I  go  to  the  city. 
Good-nio-ht  P 


AMERICA.  77 


SAUNTERING  laughingly  along,  Frank  and  Minnie, 
Blanche  and  I,  went  our  way  downward  toward  the 
Dell.  We  take  with  us  our  rods  and  baskets,  ostensi 
bly,  for  fishing,  but  that  is  not  our  chief  object. 

Frank  is  to  see  the  cascade,  the  rustic  bridge,  the 
"  big  rock,"  and  last,  but  not  least,  La  Solitaire,  if  it 
may  so  happen. 

Reaching  the  bridge,  we  stand  a  while  leaning 
over  its  side  to  watch  the  swift  waters  beneath  it,  and 
for  Frank  to  obtain  the  best  view  of  the  cascade.  He 
marvels  at  its  beauty,  and  asks  me  if  it  does  not 
remind  me  of  something  I  have  seen  elsewhere. 

"  Yes,  Frank,  one  of  the  cascatelles  which  form  the 
great  Falls  of  the  Reichenbach  ;  I  remember  it  well." 

"  It  reminds  me"  more,"  says  Frank,  "  of  Tivoli." 

"  How  proud  we  should  be  of  our  sweet  little  water 
fall  ! "  exclaim  Minnie  and  Blanche. 

We  climb  the  steep  bank  by  a  winding  path  amidst 
the  dense  cedars  and  hemlocks,  and  emerge  by  the 
great  rock  which  overhangs  the  pool.  Rude  steps  of 
nature's  chiselling  lead  to  the  platform  on  its  summit, 


78  RURAL     LIFE 

where,  under  the  hemlock  branches  which  shade  it,  six 
persons  may  sit  comfortably,  if  there  were  accomoda- 
lions  for  the  purpose. 

My  companions  are  pleased  with  my  sequestered 
seat,  and  give  me  the  credit  of  its  discovery,  but  T  show 
them  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  hidden  from  superficial 
view,  some  characters,  deeply  carved  into  the  bark, 
and  almost  overgrown.  They  are — a  heart,  and  within 
it  the  letters,  A.  M.— K.  G. 

"  There,  friends,  you  see  I  am  not  the  first  who  has 
trodden  this  ground,  'hereby  hangs  a  tale!'" 

"  Let  us  call  it  henceforth,  the  Lovers'  Rock,"  says 
Minnie.  "And  so  it  shall  be,"  we  all  exclaim. 

We  linger  there  awhile,  whilst  Frank  tries  his  hand 
with  my  fly-rod,  catching  a  few  fish  ;  and  then  we 
roam  through  the  woods,  gradually  ascending,  till  we 
stand  upon  the  summit  of  a  ridge,  which,  almost  bare 
of  trees,  commands  a  prospect  of  considerable  extent. 

Northward  on  the  high  ground  is  our  picturesque 
cottage,  a  mile  distant.  Beneath  us  lies  Hermit's  Dell 
with  its  familiar  murmurs.  Westward  stretches  the 
river,  and  its  opposite  shores,  sunny  and  beautiful ; 
whilst  nearer  by,  is  the  lonely  cabin  of  La  Solitaire, 
and  the  fair  fields  of  farmer  Mead  lying  along  the  hill 
top  behind  it. 

But  the  day  is  getting  warm,  and  it  is  proposed  th?t 
we  walk  homeward. 


I  N     A  M  E  R  I  C  A   .  VfJ 

•'  1  want  a  taste  of  goat's  milk,"  says  Frank  ;  "  sup 
pose  we  go  by  the  cabin,  and  get  some." 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  ! "  Blanche  ex 
claims,  for  she  had  forgotten  our  neighbor's  idiosyn 
crasy. 

"Why  Blanche  !"  answers  Frank,  "  in  some  parts 
of  Europe  you  can  find  no  other  milk  ;  it  is  excellent 
for  delicate  stomachs.  If  I  get  any,  you  shall  taste  it." 

We  are  soon  near  the  cabin  door,  and  admire  the 
neatness  of  everything  around  it.  The  garden,  though 
a  mere  patch,  was  well  stocked  and  flourishing ;  the 
creepers  were  fantastically  trained  over  the  doors  and 
lower  windows,  and  a  few  flowering  plants,  tastefully- 
disposed  here  and  there,  evinced  careful  tending. 

Minnie  and  Blanche  seemed  mollified,  and  more 
kin-oily  disposed  than  formerly  towards  the  lonely  wo 
man.  I  had  never  been  able  to  fathom  their  unwillin-g- 
ness  to  become  acquainted  with  her,  supposing  they 
might  have  heard  some  scandal,  or  perhaps  were  in 
awe  of  a  person  living  so  incomprehensibly  as  La  So 
litaire. 

The  door  was  open,  but  no  one  discernible  ;  and  as 
our  approach  had  been  quiet,  wre  were  not  perceived. 
Frank,  free  and  easy  as  he  is,  advanced  to  the  door 
and  knocked.  His  summons  was  quickly  answered 
by  the  woman,  who  seemed  a  little  surprised  on  dis 
cerning  us  standing  near  by. 


80  RURAL     LIFE 

Frank  gave  her  no  time,  however,  to  inquire  his  busi 
ness  ;  for,  without  ceremony,  he  made  known  his  wish 
for  a  cup  of  milk,  if  she  had  it  to  spare.  It  was  quickly 
brought,  andf  a  gracious  invitation  extended  to  us  to 
come  and  partake  of  it  also.  Frank  took  the  draught 
with  all  the  gusto  of  a  Swiss  herdsman ;  and  when 
another  cupfull  wras  offered  to  us,  Blanche  and  Minnie 
each  took  a  sip  out  of  compliment  to  the  donor,  leaving 
me  to  finish  it. 

"Signer,"  said  La  Solitaire,  "will  not  your  friends 
sit  awhile?"  As  the  ice  now  seemed  broken,  the 
invitation  was  accepted  :  chairs  were  brought,  and  wre 
sat,  partly  in  the  room  and  on  the  little  porch  without. 
After  apologizing  for  our  abrupt  visit,  Minnie  and  her 
new  acquaintance  wrere  soon  chatting  sociably  on  va 
rious  topics.  Blanche  had  won  the  heart  of  Pedro,  the 
dark-eyed  boy,  who  had  escaped  our  notice  before, 
whilst  Frank  and  I  employed  ourselves  in  taking  ob 
servations  of  the  fanciful  interior  within  our  view,  and 
catching  an  occasional  sentence  of  the  conversation. 

"  Would  you  see  one  of  his  pictures  ?  come  with 
me,"  said  La  Solitaire  to  Minnie.  They  go  towards 
the  cupboard,  which  is  formed  between  the  chimney 
and  the  wall.  The  door  is  opened,  and  the  black 
shroud,  which  had  so  excited  my  curiosity  before, 
draw'n  aside  by  the  hand  of  the  Italian. 

Our  eyes  were  all  turned  and  riveted    'pon  Ihe  ffem 


IN     AMERICA.  81 

revealed  to  us, — a  "Magdalen"  of  such  unearthly 
beauty,  it  seemed  almost  the  production  of  an  inspired 
hand.  Frank  arid  I  stand  amazed  at  its  wondrous  love 
liness  ;  we  have  seen  many  an  old  master-piece,  but 
never  before  such  a  "  Magdalen."  Our  companions 
share  our  enthusiasm,  and  Blanche  stands  before  it 
with  clasped  hands,  the  image  of  wonderment. 

It  is  indeed  a  marvellous  production ;  she  kneels 
before  a  narrow  window  through  which  a  ray  of  sun 
light  is  gleaming,  lighting  up  her  pale  and  tearful  face, 
and  the  golden  hair  which  streams  adown  her  partially 
covered  breast  and  shoulders  in  dishevelled  masses. 
The  dark  grey  robe  which  enshrouds  her  form  and  in 
dicates  her  penitence,  shows  in  fine  contrast  with  the 
pallid  yet  life-like  skin  it  touches.  It  is  a  picture  of 
sin,  penitence,  and  pardon. 

"  And  this  was  the  work  of  your  husband,  Signora  ?" 
inquired  Frank. 

"  It  was  his  last  work,  Signer ;  but  will  you  not  call 
me  Bella  ?" 

"  Your  husband  is  not  living  then  ?  Bella,"  I  con 
tinued. 

"  No,  Signor,  he  has  been  dead  almost  six  years ; 
before  I  came  here  in  the  valley." 

"  Our  neighbor  has  been  informing  me  some  little  of 
her  past  life,"  said  Minnie,  "  and  we  will  not  ask  her 

to  repeat  it.     It  is  time  we  were  on  our  way  home  too 
6 


82  RURAL     LIFE 

it  is  almost  our  dinner  hour."  As  \ve  rose  to  leave,  La 
Solitaire  expressed  a  desire  that  we  would  stop  again 
when  in  the  Dell,  for  she  was  often  lonesome. 

We  promised  to  do  so,  and  taking  a  parting  look  at 
the  "Magdalen,"  departed. 

"  I  think,"  saidsFrank,  "  her  history  would  be  an  in 
teresting  one  ;  Minnie,  you  have  heard  some  of  it,  and 
must  enlighten  us  this  evening." 

"  Did  you  see  the  image  and  the  crucifix,  Harry  ?" 
asks  Blanche  ;  "  so  Italian  looking,  and  she  seems  to 
be  perfectly  happy  !" 

"  Yes,  Blanche,  but  the  veiled  picture !  do  you  not 
covet  it  almost  ?  And  how  romantic  too,  shrouded  in 
mourning  ! — Frank  !  I  wonder  if  she  would  part  with 
it." 

"  No,  never  till  death,"  replies  Minnie  ;  "  she  told 
me  that  it  is  the  only  treasure  she  possesses — except 
her  child." 

Full  of  interest  in  the  somewhat  mysterious  lot  of 
the  subject  of  our  conversation,  we  reach  home  again, 
finding  Birdie  and  Bridget  awaiting  our  coming  most 
anxiously.  The  cook  sends  word  that  the  dinner  is 
spoiled,  as  it  should  have  been  served  an  hour  ago 
But  no  matter,  we  can  afford  to  eat  a  poor  dinner  after 
the  morning's  enjoyment.  Frank  and  I  while  away 
the  long,  sunny  afternoon,  beneath  the  willows  by  the 
mill-dam,  catching  perch  and  chub  which  there  abound 


IN     AMERICA.  83 

As  the  sun  declines,  we  stroll  along  the  stream,  fishing 
as  we  go,  till  the  swamp  prevents  our  further  progress. 

About  a  mile  eastward  of  this,  where  the  stream  is 
wide  and  deep,  there  was,  some  years  ago,  another 
mill-dam.  The  remains  of  it  are  to  be  seen  yet,  with 
those  of  the  mill,  fast  crumbling  to  the  ground ;  and 
near  by,  stands  a  dilapidated  and  deserted  house,  once 
the  dwelling  of  the  miller  and  his  family.  They  are 
scattered  now ;  some  dead,  others  wanderers — they 
who  once  filled  a  happy  home  ! 

The  ruins  are  still  called  "  Ramsay's  Mill ;"  and  the 
history  connected  wTith  it  is  a  melancholy  one,  which 
may  be  written  in  after  pencillings.  Where,  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  may  we  not  see  the  traces  of  guilt 
and  sorrow'  1  for 

"  Sorrow  treads  heavily,  and  leaves  behind 
A  deep  impression,  even  when  she  departs." 

As  we  ascend  the  hill  leading  homeward,  Minnie 
and  Blanche,  with  a  companion  whose  form  is  not 
unfamiliar  to  our  eyes,  are  coming  to  meet  us.  It  is 
Blanche's  lover,  who  has  arrived  durinsr  our  absence. 

'  O 

We  meet  him  with  a  warm  welcome,  and  return  to 
the  cottage  together.  How  happy  is  Blanche  to-night ! 
and  R —  —  no  less  so,  of  course. 

The  quiet,  delicious  evening  comes,  bringing  us  on 


84  EURALLIFE 

the  porch,  Frank  to  enjoy  his  Havana,  the  lovers  their 
quiet  intercourse,  and  Minnie  ready  to  tell  us  all  she 
knows  about  La  Solitaire. 

"Come,  Minnie,  let  us  have  your  story;  we  will 
listen  now,"  says  Blanche. 

"  It  is  not  much  to  tell,  for  it  was  told  me  hurriedly,'1 
replies  the  narrator,  "  but  this  is  the  import  of  it.  I 
asked  our  neighbor,  Bella — for  we  may  as  well  call  her 
by  her  right  name — if  she  was  not  lonesome  sometimes  ? 
She  said,  '  No,  it  was  her  choice.'  I  asked  her  how 
long  she  had  been  living  in  the  valley  ?  and  she  com 
menced  to  tell  me  in  a  very  intelligent  manner,  all  I 
wanted  to  know  for  the  time  being.  You  know  she 
speaks  with  considerable  Italian  accent,  and  there 
were  some  words  I  did  not  exactly  understand  ;  so  I 
will  give  the  information  I  received  in  my  own  lan 
guage.  Her  native  place  is  near  Amain,  not  far  from 
the  bay  of  Naples,  and  her  parents  are  still  living 
there,  together  with  one  er  two  sisters.  Her  father  is 
a  fisherman,  or  was  when  she  left  there,  which  was 
some  seven  years  ago ;  and  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes 
when  she  told  me  of  their  white  cottage,  surrounded 
by  an  orange  grove  and  vineyard,  which  her  father, 
assisted  by  his  children,  found  time  to  attend  to.  Her 
husband  had  been  a  peasant  of  the  country  near  by, 
but  having  a  taste  for  painting,  went  to  Naples,  and 


IN     AMERICA.  85 

found  employment  sufficient  to  give  them  means  to 
buy  a  plot  of  ground  and  build  a  small  cabin  for 
themselves  ;  for,  she  says,  everything  is  very  cheap 
there.  By  and  by,  her  husband,  she  called  him  Pie- 
tro,  obtained  employment  in  making  copies  of  paint 
ings  in  the  Royal  Museum,  to  sell  to  strangers  in 
Naples. 

He  was  very  successful,  and  made  considerable 
money,  coming  home  one  or  two  days  in  the  week,  to 
finish  his  paintings  and  attend  to  their  little  vineyard, 
which  she  was  able  to  cultivate  herself. 

By  and  by,  from  making  copies,  he  painted  occa 
sionally  originals,  creations  of  his  own  fancy,  or  now 
and  then  a  Madonna  or  a  Magdalen  after  life.  One 
day,  an  American  gentleman  chanced  to  enter  his 
studio,  attracted  by  some  beautiful  copies  hanging 
within  the  door.  He  made  a  large  purchase  of  the 
young  artist,  and  gave  him  farther  orders  to  be  finished 
and  shipped  to  the  United  States. 

Pietro  felt  flattered  at  this  appreciation  of  his  talent, 
and  thinking  that  there  must  be  a  rich  field  here  in 
which  to  labor,  hastily  made  up  his  mind  to  emigrate 
and  seek  his  fortune  accordingly.  Gathering  up  all 
they  possessed,  they  came  to  America,  full  of  hopeful 
anticipation.  They  landed  at  New-York,  but  soon 
found  that  an  artist's  life  was  one  of  toil.  The  few 


86  RURAL     LIFE 

pictures  they  brought  with  them  were  sacrificed  from 
necessity,  and  then  the  trial  came.  The  change  of  cli 
mate,  want,  and  exposure,  soon  preyed  upon  her  hus 
band's  health  and  spirits,  till  he  was  laid  up  with  a  lung 
fever.  She,  with  a  young  child,  and  obliged  to  labor  to 
obtain  even  the  poorest  necessaries  of  life,  at  the  same 
time  nursing  her  sick  husband,  was  almost  worn  out. 
But  some  charitable  persons  assisted  them  till  Pietro 
died,  and  she  was  left  a  stranger,  alone  in  a  strange  land. 
She  knew  not  which  way  to  turn,  when  an  opportunity 
offered  for  her  to  come  into  the  country,  some  twenty 
miles  distant  from  here,  as  a  domestic  or  housekeeper 
in  the  family  of  an  invalid  lady.  She  had  by  this 
time  acquired  sufficient  knowledge  of  our  language  to 
make  herself  useful  in  various  capacities,  but  the  lady 
died,  and  she  was  thrown  out  of  a  home,  till  wander 
ing  hither,  the  house  she  now  occupies  struck  her 
fancy,  and  as  it  was  then  vacant,  and  she  could  obtain 
it  for  a  trifling  rent,  it  was  taken ;  and  now  by 
economy  and  taking  in  a  little  sewing  or  fancy  work, 
she  obtains  a  comfortable  subsistence.  The  picture 
she  showed  us  was  the  last  labor  of  her  husband,  and 
though  often  in  want  and  tempted  to  dispose  of  it,  she 
still  retains  it.  With  her  garden  and  her  goats,  which 
last  are  kept  because  of  their  requiring  so  little  care, 
she  lives  n  comparative  comfort.  She  farther  said, 


IN     AMERICA.  87 

(hat  some  call  her  a  fortune-teller,  but  that  is  only  to 
amuse  the  young  people  who  come  to  the  glen  in  pic 
nic  parties. 

"  There,  friends,  my  story  is  told,  it  is  just  as  she 
told  it  to  me,  except  with  the  peculiarities  of  her  lan 
guage  ;  quite  romantic — is  it  not  ?" 

"  Well,  Minnie  !"  says  Frank,  "you  are  not  far  out 
of  the  way,  for  I  did  not  miss  a  dozen  words  of  her 
relation  to  you  this  morning,  though  I  did  not  appear 
to  be  listening ;  but  I  shall  see  La  Solitaire  again." 

R is  very  much  pleased  and  interested,  and 

says  that  Blanche  must  show  him  the  wray  to  Hermit's 
Dell  to-morrow ;  he  must  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Bella  too. 

"  Ho  !  for  a  sail,"  exclaims  Frank,  "  see  what  a 
glorious  breeze  is  springing  up — 

'  Like  the  wings  of  ocean  birds, 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea — ' 

river — I  mean. 

It  is  not  long  before  we  are  at  the  dock,  the  wiiite 
sail  of  our  little  "  Glide"  hoisted,  and  flying  along 
before  the  south-east  breeze  across  the  wake  of  a 
steamer  ploughing  her  way  northward. 

We  round   to  by  the  wall  of  the  light-house,  and 
take  old  Dederich,  the  Dutchman,  and  his  wife  by  sur 
prise.     We  sit  awhile  on  the   abutments  and  watch 


88  RURAL     LIFE 

the  passing  craft ;  Frank  and  Blanche  sing  a  gay  song ; 
then  leaving  the  trusty  Pharos  keeper  a  handful  of 
cigars,  we  regain  our  boat  and  tack  shoreward. 

A  heaped  dish  of  "  Hovey's,"  and  rich  cream  to 
"  smother"  them,  await  us  at  the  house,  ai<d  another 
day  is  gone. 


INAMERICA.  89 


XL 


THE  dark  wing  of  Death's  angel  has  cast  its  shad\  w 
over  our  fair  landscape.  Bessie  Pike,  the  fishermai/s 
daughter,  died  this  morning.  Her  old  mother  sent  for 
Minnie  at  day-break,  when  the  last  hour  of  her  daugh 
ter's  life  seemed  approaching.  It  was  a  sad  scene,  as 
a  death-chamber  always  is  ;  but  with  the  dying  girl, 
all  was  peace  and  comfort.  There  were  no  shudder- 
ings  at  thought  of  the  Dark  Valley ;  no  impatient 
longings  to  go  or  stay.  It  is  the  first  time  that  death 
has  entered  the  lowly  dwelling,  and  it  is  a  hard  trial. 
She  was  their  only  child,  and  they  too  upon  the  brink 
of  the  grave. 

It  was  a  sad  task  for  Minnie  to  perform — the  closing 
of  the  eye,  the  robing  for  the  grave ;  but  on  whom 
else  could  they  call  in  their  grief  and  loneliness  ! 

To-morrow  she  will  be  buried  ;  we  shall,  some  of 
us,  follow  her  to  the  quiet  churchyard,  and  see  her 
remains  decently  interred.  Till  then,  oh  heart-stricken 
parents,  weep  and  lament  her  loss,  for  she  was  dear  to 
you,  though  a  seeming  burthen  in  your  old  age  !  yet — 


90  RURAL     LIFE 

"  She  "will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! 

Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling  place." 

The  event  has  cast  a  gloom  over  our  household  ;  for 
we  had  felt  interested  in  the  family,  and  had  ministered 
somewhat  to  their  comfort  occasionally. 

Blanche  and  her  friend  spend  most  of  the  afternoon 
amidst  the  quietudes  of  Hermit's  Dell.  Minnie  has 
household  duties  to  attend  to  ;  so  Frank  and  I  drive 
by  the  river  road  to  Hillsdale,  stopping  on  the  wray  to 
visit  the  beautiful  grounds  and  conservatories  of  a 
neighbor,  which  I  was  desirous  my  friend  should  see. 

We  go  on  to  the  post  office,  sit  and  read  our  papers 
for  awhile,  and  drive  by  a  circuitous  route  homeward 
as  the  shadows  are  lengthening.  Frank  is  becoming 
enamoured  of  country  life,  and  it  would  not  be  sur 
prising,  if  another  season  found  him  settled  down 
among  us,  and  married  too. 

"  By  the  by,  Harry,  can  we  go  over  to  Briar-cliff  in 
a  day  or  two  ?  I  am  anxious  to  see  it  before  I  go  to 
the  city  and  make  farther  inquiries.  I  have  to  go  to 
Glen-Clunie  too,  and  my  friends  in  the  city  will  won 
der  how  much  longer  I  am  to  be  absent.  You  know 
T  came  here  right  off  ship." 

To-morrow,  Frank,   the  funeral   takes  place,  you 


IN     AMERICA.  91 

know,  and  I  should  attend  it.  Suppose  we  leave 
going  to  Briar-cliff  till  Thursday.  Will  that  suit 
you  ?" 

"  Perfectly,"  replies  Frank  ;  "  Friday  night  will  find 
me  at  Uncle's ;  I  can  stay  there  until  Monday,  and  be 
in  the  city  by  Tuesday  morning.  That  will  do  very 
well." 

When  we  reach  our  gate,  we  see  our  friends  sitting 

on  the  knoll  above,  awaiting  us.     R is  obliged  to 

leave  us  on  the  morrow,  and  Frank  tells  me  that  the 
wedding  day  is  appointed  some  time  during  the  fall. 
We  do  not  like  to  anticipate  the  event,  for  Blanche  has 
become  endeared  to  us,  and  Minnie  will  miss  her  so 
much ;  they  have  been  companions  so  long.  But 
"  change  is  the  order  of  nature,"  and  we  will  have  to 
submit. 

Joining  the  party  on  the  knoll,  we  sit  an  hour  or 
more,  looking  at  and  expatiating  on  the  surrounding 
scenery,  so  varied  and  beautiful.  Below  us,  half  hid 
den  amid  old  willow  trees,  by  the  river  bank,  is  the 
dwelling,  wherein  Bessie  Pike  lies  cold  and  still ;  and 
as  we  speak  of  her,  it  is  a  question  what  the  poor  old 
people  will  do  now.  Will  they  live  there  still,  or  go 
among  their  kindred  in  the  neighboring  county  ?  Time 
will  solve  ! 

But  a  coming  thunder-shower,  with  its  precursive 
gust,  drives  us  to  the  house.  We  cannot  even  remain 


92  KURALLIFE 

on  the  porch,  and  by  and  by  the  heavy  rain  comes, 
beating  down  the  gravel,  despoiling  the  rose-bushes  of 
their  lingering  flowers,  and  making  a  mimic  flood  to 
course  down  our  steep  carriage  road  to  make  work  for 
Teddy  again. 

On  our  elevated  position,  we  feel  a  little  fearful  of 
the  vivid  lightning  whenever  it  comes,  although  the 
house  is  well  rodded ;  still  to  me,  the  lightning  has 
always  been  a  sort  of  terror. 

But  it  is  soon  over ;  everything  is  glittering  and 
bright  with  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and  in  the  East, 
a  faint  tinge  of  prismatic  hues  is  lingering,  but  fading. 

How  delightfully  cool  and  fresh  is  the  air  now, 
and  how  grateful  to  our  parched  garden  has  been 
this  shower  !  We  will  not  complain  to-morrow  of 
wilted  salad  or  peas,  and  our  late  potatoes  will  com 
mence  growing  again.  The  pasture  lot  wanted  it 
too,  and  also  our  meadow,  which  must  be  mowed  next 
week. 

Another  shower,  whose  premonitory  mutterings  had 
been  long  continued,  ushers  in  the  night.  We  are 
driven  in  doors  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  each 
amuses  himself  or  herself  to  their  inclination. 

Frank  settles  himself  in  my  study  chair  and  reads 
Sir  Thomas  Brown's  essay  on  "  Urn  Burial,"  now  and 
then  reciting  a  passage  for  our  appreciation.  I  have 
letters  to  write ;  Minnie  is  at  her  everlasting  sewing 


IS     AMERICA.  83 

and  stitching,  whilst  our  interesting  couple  play  chess 
till  Blanche  is  tired  and  betakes  herself  to  the  piano, 
to  enliven  us  with  the  translation  of  some  difficult 
music,  Frank  brought  her  from  Par's. 


94 


RURAL     LTFK 


XII. 

THE  green  sods  are  heaped  over  Bessie  Pike's  grave 
in  the  churchyard  of  Hillsdale,  and  will  soon  seem  as 
if  they  had  never  been  disturbed.  'Her  old  parents, 
bowed  down  and  grief-stricken,  are  sitting  lonely 
enough  in  their  desolate  home,  perhaps  soon  to  be  va 
cated  by  them,  too,  and  Minnie  is  with  them,  striving 

to  tender  all  the  consolation  in  her  power.     R has 

taken  his  departure  for  a  season,  leaving  Blanche  in  a 
saddened  mood.  The  next  time  he  comes,  perhaps,  it 
will  be  for  a  more  satisfactory  purpose  to  both  of  them, 
but  not  so  much  so  to  us. 

As  the  afternoon  is  long,  and  the  ladies  have  said 
that  they  did  not  care  to  go  to  Briar-cliff  again  so 
soon,  Frank  and  I  purpose  going  without  them.  Old 
Charley  is  put  to  the  light  wagon,  and  we  are  soon 
on  our  way  over  the  hills. 

It  is  but  an  half  hour's  drive,  yet  a  charming  one, 
embracing  almost  every  variety  of  scenery ;  and  my 
friend  is  much  pleased  with  the  appearance  of  the 
country.  Passing  by  the  cottage  at  which  we  had 
stopped  on  the  previous  visit,  we  enter  the  grounds 


IN     AMERICA.  95 

and,  tying  our  horse,  commence  our  survey.  Every 
thing  is  in  a  most  dilapidated  condition  ;  ground  run  to 
waste  and  \vell  stocked  with  weeds  of  every  sort, 
especially  those  odious  specimens,  St.  John's  wort  and 
Canada  thistle.  The  out-buildings  are  commodious 
and  may  be  repaired  at  small  expense.  The  house, 
which  we  managed  to  enter  by  creeping  through  a 
narrow  cellar  window,  is  well  built  and  roomy  ;  a  little 
old  fashioned  as  to  its  finish,  but  still  elegant.  The 
upper  windows  command  a  glorious  view,  not  only  of 
the  surrounding  country,  but  a  range  of  mountains, 
forty  miles  distant,  and  a  broad  stretch  of  the  river,  not 
more  than  five  miles  away  at  the  farthest. 

Frank  says  his  only  objection  to  the  place  would 
be  its  distance  from  the  river,  and  consequently  the  dif 
ficulty  of  access  in  winter  or  when  the  roads  are  bad. 

Without  guidance  we  descend  into  the  valley  or  glen 
in  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  wander  through  its  re 
cesses.  There  is  no  waterfall,  as  at  Hermit's  Dell,  but 
in  its  stead  a  large  and  deep  pond  of  ever-living  water, 
stocked  with  choice  fish.  Traces  of  gravelled  wralks 
winding  among  the  woods  are  visible,  but  now  choked 
up  with  leaves,  and  barricaded  with  broken  branches. 
It  has  evidently ,been  a  fair  haunt  in  years  gone  by. 

Bridge-valley  cannot  be  very  far  from  here,  and 
Hillsdale  is  almost  as  near  as  to  us,  being  in  a  different 
direction. 


96  RURAL     LIFE 

Frank  appears  pleased  with  the  property,  and  if  it 
cau  be  purchased  at  a  fair  price,  I  doubt  not  he  will 
buy  it  and  live  here  permanently. 

On  our  departure,  we  stop  a  few  moments  at  the 
Cottage  to  chat  with  the  old  man,  who  entertains  us 
awhile,  and  would  keep  us  till  night  if  he  could,  listen 
ing  to  his  manifold  relations. 

He  has  not  heard  that  the  property  is  offered  for 
sale,  though  he  thinks  "  it  mout  be  so,"  and  evidently 
wishes  it  were  ;  for  he  was  very  anxious  to  fathom  the 
motives  of  our  visit. 

He  gave  us,  ho\vever,  one  item  of  information  which 
was  new ;  and  that  is,  the  probability  of  a  railroad 
running  about  half  a  mile  distant,  and  forming  a  con 
nection  writh  the  city.  That  would  obviate  much  of 
Frank's  objection  to  the  residence,  at  any  rate. 

It  is  quite  late  when  we  reach  our  home.  Minnie 
and  Blanche  have  been  delaying  supper  for  us,  which 
we  are  prepared  to  enjoy  with  good  relish,  especially 
as  a  dish  of  fine  red  "  Antwerps,"  the  first  we  have 
had  this  season,  grace  the  table. 

Birdie  climbs  upon  my  knee  with  his  picture  alpha- 
get,  to  show  me  what  he  has  learned  under  Bridget's 
tuition,  who  is  very  proud  of  her  success. 

The  little  fellow  informs  me  too  that  "  Aunty 
Blanche"  has  been  riding  his  pony  almost  to  the  vil 
lage ;  and  he  laughs  thinking  how  "funny"  Shag 


IN     AMERICA.  9t 

looked  under  his  unaccustomed  burden.  But  his  bed 
time  has  arrived,  and  off  he  scampers  to  drearn  his 
fairy  visions. 

Frank  says  he  must  leave  us  to-morrow  for  a  few 
days  ;  and  then  our  household  will  relapse  into  its 
iormer  quietness. 

"1  shall  miss  you  very  much,  Frank;  more  now 
than  ever  before." 

"And  so  shall  we;"  continue  the  others.  "But 
then,  not  as  much  as  Harry  will,  you  know,  Blanche ; 
ior  we  shall  have  our  hands  full  of  work  for  two 
weeks,"  says  Minnie. 

Frank  promises  to  return  soon,  and  stay  till  we  get 
tired  of  him  ;  but  notwithstanding  this,  we — he  and  I — 
find  matter  for  converse  till  the  clock  strikes  twelve— 
late  h"ur  ior  our  simple,  country  lite. 
7 


BUBAL     LIFE 


XIII. 

IT  is  the  sweet  haying-time  !  and  the  air  is  fragrant 
with  the  odor  of  drying  grass,  which  Teddy  is  turning 
on  our  meadow-lot.  Bridget  and  Birdie  are  revelling 
sportively  amidst  the  odorous  \vinrows,  whilst  some 
truant  urchins,  who  should  be  conning  their  tasks  in 
the  corner  school-house,  are  popping  away  most  indus 
triously  at  the  meadow  larks,  scattered  over  the  field 
and  perched  on  the  neighboring  tree-tops. 

It  is  nearly  noon,  and  I  have  just  returned  from  old 
farmer  Mead's,  with  whom  it  is  my  pleasure  to  have 
a  frequent  chat,  either  over  the  fence  which  divides 
our  possessions,  or  more  sociably,  upon  his  ample 
porch,  shaded  by  great  locusts,  planted  by  his  father 
fifty  years  ago. 

Hard  labor  and  the  burden  of  years  have  left  their 
impress  on  the  old  farmer.  His  head  is  gray  and  his 
form  bowed,  but  not  with  infirmity  ;  for  he  is  as  sturdy 
as  an  old  oak,  and  likely  to  live  for  many  years  to 
come.  He  is  a  thoughtful  old  man  too,  for  he  has  had 
his  share  of  sorrows  and  cares,  and  loves  to  sit  in  his 
accustomed  seat  within  the  door,  whence  he  can  look 


IN     AMERICA.  99 

o,er  the  greater  part  of  the  farm  thd*  has  witnessed 
for  so  many  years  his  untiring  labors,  feume  of  those 
years  have  been  weighty  with  affliction,  but  he  never 
repines  ;  though  he  often  wishes  "  his  boy  had  taken 
to  the  farm  better  than  he  did." 

Looking  upon  him  this  morning  as  he  sat  musing, 
but  cheerful,  I  thought  of  those  beautiful  lines  which 
he  might  fitly  sing. 

"  2>To  more  to  bind  the  amber  sheaves 

With  the  reaper  bands  I  go ; 
I  stand  where  the  rays  in  the  gabled  eaves 

From  the  orient  softly  flow. 
I  am  old,  but  hope  can  never  decay, 

And  why  should  my  spirit  care : 
The  sun  sheds  blessings  on  locks  of  grey, 

And  hallows  an  old  man's  hair." 

Frank  has  returned  to  us  again,  but  is  away  most 
of  the  time,  attending  to  his  new  purchase,  for  he  is 
possessor  of  Briar-clifF.  Its  last  owner,  who  had  been 
abroad  many  years,  returned  a  few  weeks  since,  and 
not  wishing  to  revive  old  and  painful  reminiscences, 
offered  the  property  for  sale.  The  price  was  less 
than  we  anticipated,  and  my  friend  became  the  willing 
purchaser. 

He  has  bought  a  horse,  and  divides  his  time  between 
'is  and  Briar-Cliff,  superintending  masons,  carpenters, 


100  RURALLIFE 

and  gardeners  in  their  manifold  labors.  I  go  there 
with  him  occasionally,  and  although  it  is  but  two 
weeks  since  he  commenced  operations,  a  great  change 
is  manifest.  The  old  man  at  the  cottage  near  the 
gate  is  highly  delighted  to  see  the  "  haunted  house" 
again  occupied,  arid  hobbles  back  and  forth  to  note 
the  improvements  and  occasionally  tender  Frank  his 
advice.  He  is  desirous  that  his  little  house  should  be 
moved  within  the  gate,  so  that  it  may  be  called  "the 
lodge,"  and  offers  to  teach  his  grandchild  to  be  gate 
keeper.  Frank  has  promised  to  think  of  it,  and  if  he 
can  modernize  the  house,  perhaps  he  will  make  use 
of  it  in  that  way. 

Blanche  is  delighted  at  her  brother's  good  fortune 
in  being  able  to  settle  so  near  us.  She  is  at  Briar- 
cliff  frequently,  roaming  over  the  grounds  and  suggest 
ing  many  alterations  and  improvements.  She  says 
she  will  have  two  homes  to  visit  now  when  tired 
of  the  one  she  is  soon  to  occupy  in  the  city. 

Frank  has  committed  to  us  a  confidential  item  of 
information  too.  He  is  to  be  married  soon  after 
Blanche ;  arid  he  kept  his  secret  pretty  well,  for  the 
chosen  person  is  one  he  met  in  his  travels  abroad — a 
resident  of  a  southern  city,  and  who  has  just  returned. 

What  with  preparations  for  Blanche's  wedding  and 
the  entertainment  of  our  metropolitan  friends  who 
visit  us  occasionally,  our  ladies  have  about  as  much  as 


IN     AMERICA.  101 

they  can  attend  to.  Consequently  Frank  and  I  depend 
upon  ourselves  and  each  other  for  company  and  amuse 
ment. 

When  not  obliged  to  be  at  Briar-cliff,  we  don  our 
thick  boots  and  shooting  jackets,  and  spend  a  day 
scouring  the  swamps  after  our  favorite  game,  wood 
cock.  Frank  is  a  glorious  shot,  and  always  drops  his 
bird  ;  I  cannot  speak  as  well  of  my  skill.  It  is  rather 
against  our  principles  to  kill  woodcock  .before  the 
Fall  months  ;  but  as  our  rustic  sportsmen  commence 
early  in  July,  we  are  rather  loth  to  lose  the  share  we 
are  entitled  to,  as  some  of  the  best  ground  in  the 
country  is  embraced  within  the  bounds  of  Briar-cliff. 

Frank  wants  to  string  .up  the  heads  of  all  we  kill  as 
a  tally ;  but  Minnie  rebels  at  this  innovation  of  her 
epicurean  taste  ;  she  must  have  the  heads  for  her 
share. 

As  we  were  sitting  on  the  porch  last  evening,  the 
only  part  of  the  day  which  brings  us  all  together, 
sounds  of  gay  merriment  came  up  from  Hermit's  Dell. 
We  proposed  walking  thitherward  to  see  what  was 
going  on. 

Crossing  the  stream  which  flows  into  the  river,  some 
distance  below  the  cascade,  we  wound  our  way  through 
the  .woods  till  the  path  brought  us  to  a  point  in  view 
of  "  the  Lovers'  Rock." 

Sitting  upon  its  mossy  summit,    revealed   by  the 


102  KURALLIFE 

moonlight  were  two  figures  ;  one  clottied  in  white,  the 
other,  a  manly  form  not  unfamiliar  to  me,  that  of 
farmer  Mead's  son.  We  thought  of  the  mysterious 
initials  on  the  trunk  of  the  hemlock,  and  passed  on 
unseen.  Below,  by  the  cascade  and  on  the  rustic 
bridge  were  many  others,  some  of  whom  recognized 
us  as  we  passed  ;  the  sons  and  daughters  of  neighbor 
ing  farmers.  Again,  in  the  doorway  of  La  Solitaire's 
dwelling,  stood  a  more  silent  and  thoughtful  group, 
listening  to  the  oracle  perhaps,  or  some  story  of  old 
Italy. 

We  pass  by  unobserved,  and  reaching  the  cottage, 
hear  for  an  hour  or  two  longer  the  voices  and  laughter 

^j  O 

of  that  merry  party,  ringing  through  the  woods  and 
valleys. 

How,  in  this  world  of  ours,  are  scenes  of  gladness 
and  sorrow  mingled  !  Like  the  changing  phases  of 
the  kaleidoscope,  sometimes  dull  and  clouded,  some 
times  bright  and  brilliant.  The  merry  sounds  to  which 
we  have  been  listening  are  scarcely  silenced,  when  a 
pitiful  and  travel-worn  group  come  winding  up  the  hill 
and  stand  before  us.  It  is  superfluous  and  cruel  to 
ask  them  their  cravings  ;  they  are  apparent  enough. 
A  man  of  stout  form,  but  wan  and  wasted,  bearing  in 
his  arms  a  child  four  years  old  ;  a  woman  of  like 
appearance  carrying  a  whining  infant,  and  two  older 
children  following  after,  constitute  the  group.  They 


IN     AMERICA.  103 

are  Irish  emigrants,  come  from  their  famine-stricken 
isle,  and  wandering  about  the  country  looking  for  a 
relative,  whom  they  have  traced  to  this  vicinity.  They 
have  travelled  thus  for  many  days,  sleeping  by  the 
roadside  when  weary  and  during  the  night,  but  they 
are  almost  discouraged.  They  thought  this  a  country 
were  gold  could  be  picked  up  in  the  streets,  and  bread 
might  be  had  for  nothing  ;  but  they  find  it  far  different. 
We  can  do  nothing  for  them  except  to  give  them 
food  and  a  few  articles  of  clothing,  which  they  sorely 
need.  They  do  not  want  a  shelter  ;  for  they  say  it  is 
warm,  and  if  we  will  let  them  lie  on  the  hay  down  in 
the  meadow,  they  will  bless  us.  Poor  wanderers  ! 
may  you  find  him  you  are  seeking;  but  it  will  be  a 
long  and  weary  search ;  and  may  be  you  will  wish 
that  you  had  never  left  "  swate  Ireland,"  miserable  a? 
she  is,  and  blighted  with  a  withering  curse 


104  RURAL     LIFE 


XIV. 

How  quickly  flies  time  with  us  !  We  can  scarcely 
realize  that  the  bright,  beautiful  summer  which  has 
been  so  pregnant  with  events  conducive  to  our  happi 
ness,  has  almost  gone.  Yet  so  it  is. 

Frank  has  performed  wonders  at  Briar-cliff  with/his 
stout  Hibernian  aids.  The  house  has  been  repaired 
and  repainted,  the  garden  cultivated,  the  walks  freshly 
gravelled,  and  the  whole  grounds  put  in  complete 
order.  The  old  man's  cottage  too,  stands  at  the  gate, 
remodelled  and  quite  ornamental,  much  to  the  delight 
of  its  inmates.  Frank  and  Blanche  have  spent  several 
days  in  the  city,  selecting  furniture  and  decorations 
which  are  rapidly  arriving  and  arranged  according  to 
Blanche's  fancy  ;  for  her  brother  has  given  her  sole 
charge  of  this  department.  In  a  week  or  two,  all  will 
be  finished  and  the  house  ready  to  receive  its  new 
mistress,  whom  we  have  none  of  us  seen,  excepting 
Frank,  of  course. 

The  hall  of  the  mansion  is  very  fine  and  capacious, 
as  that  of  all  country  houses  should  be.  It  is  panelled 
with  polished  oak,  and  all  the  rooms  on  the  first  iloor 


IN     AMERICA.  105 

open  into  it.  Frank's  taste  is  manifest  in  its  decora- 
lions,  \ve  can  plainly  see.  As  you  enter  the  door  from 
the  portico,  two  knights  clad  in  mail,  which  Frank 
picked  up  in  some  antiquarian  museum  abroad,  stand 
ing-  on  massive  pedestals,  confront  you.  On  brackets 
along  the  wall  are  placed  beautiful  models  in  plaster 
bronzed,  of  classic  and  historical  figures,  male  and 
female,  draped  and  undraped,  whilst  over  the  library 
door  is  a  finely  preserved  deer's  head  and  antlers,  a 
trophy  from  the  Adirondacks. 

The  library — for  Frank  is  a  great  reader  and  has  a 
literary  turn  too — is  a  bijou  of  a  room,  not  large,  but 
roomy  enough  and  right  cozy.  It  is  finished  and 
furnished  in  oak,  with  book-cases  built  on  the  wall  and 
surmounted  with  busts  of  the  great  and  wise.  His 
paintings,  some  of  which  are  very  fine,  are  not  yet  hung, 
neither  are  his  books  unpacked,  of  which  he  has  a 
valuable  collection.  He  opened  a  case  yesterday 
packed  in  Rome,  and  showed  me  a  "  Beatrice  Cenci " 
copied  from  the  original  by  Mazzolini,  as  fine  a  copy 
as  may  be  found  anywhere.  "  But  Harry,"  he  says, 
"next  week  you  shall  see  a  gem  not  inferior  to  La 
Solitaire's,  though  a  different  subject  ;  it  is  not  un 
packed  yet." 

"  Ah,  Frank,  I  expect  your  choice  things  will  draw 
us  here  often ;  Briar-cliff  will  be  the  magnetic  pole 
to  Hermit's  Dell,  and  I  am  afraid  vour  grand  establish- 


106  RURAL     LIFE 

ment  will  make  us  dissatisfied  with  our  little  unpre 
tending  cottage." 

Then,  in  his  stable,  is  a  pair  of  spanking  blacks, 
which  think  nothing  of  accomplishing  the  distance 
between  our  places  in  half  an  hour,  though  the  road  is 
hilly.  They  do  it  nearly  every  day,  now  that  we  go 
back  and  forth  so  much. 

Frank  has  his  hands  full  of  employment,  but  does 
not  want  for  assistants.  Minnie  and  I  are  only 
lookers-on;  Blanche,  like  one  of  old,  "is  careful  after 
many  things  ; "  but  in  addition  to  her,  there  is  another 
helper  who  has  offered  his  services  to  Frank,  when  not 
engaged  with  the  duties  of  his  vocation.  This  is  a 
young  man,  whose  sphere  of  action  is  in  the  school- 
house  by  the  dusty  roadside  about  half  a  mile  distant. 

He  dropped  in  to  see  Frank  the  other  day  and 
welcome  him  to  the  neighborhood,  at  the  same  time 
tendering  his  services  in  any  way  that  might  be 
acceptable.  Seeing  that  he  felt  the  need  of  more 
congenial  society  than  he  has  for  most  of  the  six  days 
in  the  week,  Frank  has  taken  quite  an  interest  in  him. 
His  occupation  is  probably  followed  more  from  neces 
sity  than  choice,  for  he  is  evidently  a  young  man  of 
talent  and  refinement,  fitted  for  a  different  position  than 
the  one  he  occupies. 

There  are  many  such  sons  of  Nevv-Fngland — for  he 
is  one — scattered  throughout  the  country,  and  laboring 


IN     AMERICA.  107 

for  a  subsistence  which  is  often  begrudged  by  those 
who  little  know  the  self-denials  and  struggles  which 
the  dependent  often  knows. 

Frank  says  that  he  stopped  in  the  school-house  a 
few  days  ago,  after  the  rude  troop  were  dismissed,  for 
the  purpose  of  ascertaining,  in  as  delicate  a  manner  as 
possible,  how  the  young  teacher  was  domiciled ;  for 
he  had  an  idea  that  his  accomodations  were  not  the 
most  fitly  chosen  or  agreeable,  though  perhaps  equal 
to  his  means. 

It  proved  to  be  so,  and  Frank  has  now  provided  him 
with  a  snug  little  room  in  the  cottage  at  the  gate,  for 
the  present. 

I  have  frequently  passed  the  school-house,  and 
noticed  some  inscription  over  the  door  that  I  could  not 
decipher  from  the  road.  I  asked  Frank  if  he  had  ever 
observed  it. 

"  Why  yes,  Harry,  and  a  very  appropriate  motto 
too,  '  Hoc  opus,  hie  labor  estS  but  whether  it  was  put 
up  by  the  present  incumbent  or  not  I  am  unable  to 
say  ;  it  is  quite  an  original  idea,  is  it  not  ?" 

Frank  is  superintending  the  erection  of  a  grapery  in 
addition  to  his  other  improvements,  and  when  that  is 
done,  I  cannot  see  but  that  he  has  all  that  heart  can 
desire  to  make  a  country  residence  perfect. 

"  Yes,  Harry,  by  the  middle  of  September  I  hope 
to  be  through  with  masons,  carpenters  and  all  super- 


108  RURAL     LIFE 

numeraries ;  then  for  the  weddings — Blanche's  and 
mine ;  after  that,  we  will  have  a  grand  reunion  here 
and  settle  down  to  the  calm  duties  of  life,  like  you  and 
Minnie,  hey  !" 

"  I  trust  all  your  anticipations  ma)  be  answered, 
Frank ;  we  shall  be  happy  in  your  happiness." 

So  we  pass  many  days,  partly  at  Briar-cliff,  partly 
at  Hermit's  Dell.  Frank  lodges  with  us  at  night, 
driving  to  his  place  every  morning,  and  returning  here 
in  the  evening. 

Minnie  and  Blanche  find  abundance  of  work  to 
employ  them,  so  that  they  can  hardly  spare  time  to 
sail  with  us  occasionally ;  and  as  for  music,  the  piano 
has  been  unopened  for  a  month  ;  our  musician  has  too 
much  else  to  think  of. 

There  is  little  for  me  to  look  after  at  this  season,  as 
Teddy  is  diligent  and  keeps  everything  in  good  order, 
so  I  amuse  myself  in  "  taking  notes"  of  all  that  passes 
here  and  at  Briar-cliff. 

Suppose  I  should  take  a  notion  to  "  prent  em  !"  but 
that  is  not  very  probable. 


IN     AMERICA.  109 


XV. 

MINNIE  and  I  are  alone  again  for  a  day  or  two ; 
and  employing  our  time  in  returning  some  visits  to 
our  neighbors,  whom  we  have  neglected  amidst  the 
excitements  of  the  summer.  Our  social  intercourse  is 
limited,  however,  for  the  country  is  not  yet  thickly 
settled,  and  the  "  places"  of  our  friends  are  widely 
scattered.  When  the  projected  railroad  is  in  opera 
tion,  we  may  expect  many  additions  and  acquisitions 
to  our  circle. 

This  afternoon  we  paid  La  Solitaire  a  visit,  the  first 
for  weeks.  She  was  happy  to  see  us,  and  we  sat  a 
long  while  with  her,  gleaning  from  her  memory  many 
incidents  of  her  past  life.  She  loves  to  talk  of  her 
native  village,  and  more  especially  wThen  she  knows 
that  I  have  been  there,  and  through  all  that  picturesque 
country  which  lies  between  Auialfi  and  the  Doric 
temples  of  Paestum,  those  wondrous  ruins 

"  Which  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
Awful  memorial?,  but  of  whom  we  know  not." 

She  is  a  woman  of  no  common  mind  ;  not  one  of  those 


110  RURALLIFE 

ignorant  Calabrian  peasants  which  you  often  meet  in 
their  hovels  over  the  southern  part  of  Italy.  The 
associations  amidst  which  her  husband's  employment 
had  thrown  her  have  had  their  influence  on  her  mind 
and  heart.  She  reads  the  books  we  lend  her  and 
takes  good  care  of  them.  She  instructs  her  child,  and 
is  training  him  to  follow  his  father's  profession,  for 
which  he  begins  to  show  a  taste. 

She  talks  often  of  her  lost  husband,  Pietro  ;  of  those 
days  when,  a  happy  peasant  girl,  she  knew  no  care, 
except  of  trailing  vines  and  trees  burdened  with 
golden  fruit ;  when  love,  wakened  in  her  heart  by  the 
voice  of  the  dark  haired  painter,  ripened  into  devotion, 
ind  they  were  wedded.  She  speaks  of  the  blue  sea 
and  the  sunny  bay  over  which  they  often  sailed  in  the 
swift  felucca,  and  how 

"  On  the  sea-shore 

They  watched  the  ocean  and  the  sky  together, 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Italian  weather  ;" 

then  of  their  after  trials  and  his  death,  and  now  of 
the  hope  she  cherishes  that  one  day  she  may  be  able 
to  return  and  see  her  old  father  and  mother,  who  may 
yet  be  alive,  though  she  cannot  tell. 

There  is  a  certain  charm  in  the  intercourse  with  her 
which  wre  cannot  define,  and  we  wonder  not  that  the 
young  people  love  to  visit  her  sometimes  and  call  her 
a  "  fortune-teller." 


IN     AMERICA.  Ill 

I  tell  her,  if  she  ever  leaves  us  and  returns  to  Italy, 
she  must  let  me  make  her  an  offer  for  "  the  Magda 
len"  we  love  to  look  at  so  much.  "Ah,  Signor,  you 
have  been  so  kind  ;  if  ever  I  part  with  it,  it  shall  be 
yours."  I  tell  little  Pietro,  that  if  he  will  continue  to 
improve  in  his  sketches,  I  will  give  him  a  paint-box 
with  brushes  and  paper  all  complete.  It  is  really  a 
joy  to  see  his  dark  eyes  dance  with  delight  at  the 
promise  ;  but  he  shall  have  it  at  any  rate. 

We  return  home  by  the  way  of  farmer  Mead's,  and 
sit  awhile  with  the  old  couple  ;  for  it  is  a  long  time 
since  Minnie  was  there. 

The  thrifty  dame,  good  natured  and  gossiping  as 
she  is,  keeps  Minnie  entertained  in  the  best  room, 
whilst  the  farmer  and  I  walk  over  the  pasture-lot  to 
look  at  a  famous  cow7  he  has,  that  gives  twenty-two 
quarts  of  milk  a  day,  and  ten  pounds  of  butter  a  week 
then  I  must  see  his  wheat,  which  is  especially  fine  ana 
promises  a  good  yield.  He  is  very  busy  now,  trying 
to  reclaim  a  large  piece  of  swamp  land,  which  has 
long  been  worthless,  but  he  expects  not  to  live  to  see 
it  done.  He  says  he  cannot  get  any  one  to  work  now 
as  he  used  to  in  his  young  days. 

When  we  reach  home,  Frank  and  Blanche,  who 
have  been  at  Briar-cliff  since  Monday,  greet  us  on 
the  porch,  and  ask  how  we  have  got  along  without 
them  so  long-  ? 


112  KURAL     LIFE 

Frank  says  he  can  now  receive  us  at  Briar-cliff; 
the  furniture  has  all  arrived  and  been  arranged  ;  car 
pets  down,  pictures  hung,  and  everything  in  order,  but 
one  thing  wanting  to  make  the  house  complete — ser 
vants ;  arid  he  is  going  to  the  city  to-morrow  to  get 
them. 

We  chat  on  topics  connected  with  his  plans,  over 
our  tea-table,  on  which  is  a  goodly  bowl  of  peaches 
and  cream,  the  products  ol  oar  orchard  and  old  Brindle 
Frank  has  brought  a  basket  of  peaches  from  Briai 
cliff  too,  which  are  very  fine,  though  he  says  most  of 
the  fruit  has  been  appropriated  by  others. 

"When  I  get  back  from  my  city  expedition,"  says 
Frank  to  me,  "  I  want  you  to  spend  a  day  with  me 
at  my  place,  and  give  your  opinion  of  the  tout  ensemble. 
There  are  some  little  matters  to  be  considered  yet ; 
and  then,  next  week,  you  must  all  come  over  and  dine 
with  me,  a  sort  of  house-warrmng  you  know." 

"  Now  Frank,"  I  say,  "  you  have  everything  around 
you  so  choice  and  elegant,  go  over  some  time  and  buy 
our  neighbor  Mead's  great  cow  that  I  saw  to  day.  -I 
do  not  know  whether  you  can  or  not,  but  if  you  offer 
him  an  hundred  dollars,  I  do  not  believe  he  will 
hesitate." 

"  I  will  try  any  how,  Harry  ;  you  have  a  penchant 
for  fine  cattle,  and  you  know  what  is  good.  How 
many  quarts  does  she  give  ?" 


IN     AMERICA.  113 

1  tell  him  what  I  have  heard  from  the  lips  of  her 
owner,  but  he  does  not  believe  it,  although  he  is 
unwilling  to  impeach  the  good  farmer's  veracity. 

"  I  have  heard  of  such  things,  Harry,  but  have 
never  been  able  to  see  for  myself;  but  nowr  I  have  an 
opportunity,  and  will  embrace  it." 

It  is  a  clear,  breezy  evening,  just  the  one  for  our 
little  "  Glide"  to  prove  her  sailing  qualities.  Minnie 
and  Blanche  are  fairly  caught  idle,  so  they  have  to 
join  us.  Frank  pockets  his  flute,  which  from  its  long 
inaction  requires  a  good  soaking,  and  away  we  go  for 
the  river. 

The  tide  is  very  low,  and  wre  find  some  trouble  to 
work  our  vessel  out  of  the  creek  and  through  the  grass 
on  the  flats  ;  but  after  hoisting  her  broad  sail,  and 
getting  away  from  the  shoals,  we  fly  through  the 
water  at  a  glorious  rate  before  the  ten-knot  breeze. 
Our  destination  is  a  cove  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
some  three  or  four  miles  below.  It  sets  in  between 
two  high  mountains,  from  which  the  echoes  are  very 
fine.  It  is  not  our  first  visit  there,  and  as  we  cross  the 
river,  Frank  plays,  whilst  Minnie  and  Blanche  accom 
pany  him  with  their  voices.  By  and  by,  the  echoes 
are  wakened,  and  we  lay  motionless  on  the  smooth 
waters  of  the  cove,  listening  to  the  prolonged  answers 
of  imaginary  Dryades.  We  are  told  that  from  the 

summit  of  the  mountains,  the  view  is  very  extensive, 

8  i 


114  RURALLIFE 

reaching  to  the  valleys  of  the  Delaware  and  Connect^ 
cut ;  but  the  fear  of  rattle-snakes,  which  are  also  said 
to  abound  upon  them,  has  prevented  our  going  thither. 

On  our  return,  we  stop  a  few  minutes  at  the  light 
house,  where  the  Dutchman  and  his  family  live  the 
year  round,  isolated  and  lonely  enough,  rarely  seeing 
any  one,  but  those  who  take  pity  on  them  and  drop  in 
as  we  have  done. 

The  old  fellow  has  had  an  eventful  life,  incidents  of 
which  he  frequently  tells  us.  He  ran  away  from  his 
father's  house  in  Holland,  when  a  boy,  and  became  a 
sailor.  There  is  hardly  a  part  of  the  world  he  has  not 
been  in,  even  to  the  arid  isles  that  lie  under  the 
Equator,  and  away  north  amidst  Arctic  icebergs. 
Now,  he  has  a  quiet  berth,  with  nothing  much  to  do 
but  light  his  lantern  at  night,  put  it  out  in  the  morning, 
and  spend  the  rest  of  the  time  in  smoking  his  pipe, 
making  nets,  and  dreaming  over  his  past  freezings  and 
scorchings.  I  do  not  wonder  he  is  satisfied  with  his 
situation,  for  he  has  probably  seen  as  much  of  the 
world  as  he  cares  to  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

There  is  little  excitement  in  his  vocation.  It  is  not 
like  being  on  an  ocean  light-house,  where  the  waves 
make  continual  dash,  and  sometimes  thunder  against 
its  base  with  fearful  violence.  Here  there  are  no 
breakers,  no  noble  ships  sweeping  by  before  the  gale, 
no  roar  of  winds  and  waters.  But  once  has  any  inci- 


INAMERICA.  115 

dent  ol  exciting  nature  happened  since  he  has  been 
here,  and  that  was  some  years  ago. 

During  a  violent  squall,  which  are  not  (infrequent 
on  the  river,  an  Eastern  sloop  with  a  cargo  of  brick 
became  unmanageable,  and  ran  head  on  against  the 
stone  abutments.  She  was  shivered  into  fragments, 
and  two  of  her  crew  drowned.  "I  shall  never  forget 
it,"  said  Dieclrich,  "  how*  wicked  she  pitched  on  ;  it 
most  made  the  lantern  crack,  when  she  struck;  the 
poor  fellers  hollerin  too  for  me  to  put  out  my  boat ; 
two  on  em  never  came  up  alive,  they  got  mashed  in 
the  brick." 

We  always  take  the  old  fellow  some  tobacco,  which 
is  his  greatest  comfort,  and  occasionally  the  children, 
now  growing  to  be  boys  and  girls  of  ten  to  fifteen 
years,  get  some  acceptable  gifts. 

A  few  minutes  more,  and  the  "  Glide"  is  moored  by 
the  dock,  and  we  sauntering  up  the  long  avenue, 
weary  and  sleepy. 

Frank  says  I  must  have  him  up  bright  and  early  in 
the  morning,  to  take  the  boat  which  stops  at  our 
landing  by  eight  o'clock.  Sc  we  go,  now  here,  now 
there  ;  it  is  the  way  of  life 


RURAL     LIFE 


XVI. 

"  THERE,  Harry,  is  not  that  a  superb  copy  ?  Look  at 
the  eye  and  the  tint  of  the  hair — is  it  not  life-like  ?" 
We  are  sitting  in  the  library  at  Briar-cliff,  before  the 
painting  Frank  calls  "  his  gem ; "  and  it  is  indeed  a 
treasure :  not  a  copy  either,  but  an  original  by  home 
unknown  master. 

The  subject  is  Judith  and  Holofernes,  never  a 
pleasing  one  to  me  ;  but  as  a  picture,  equal,  except  in 
age,  to  the  great  original.  It  came  into  his  possession 
merely  by  accident ;  for  Frank  is  one  of  those  "  lucky 
dogs,"  who  always  appear  to  be  under  the  tutelage  of 
dame  Fortune.  Diving  into  the  shop  of  an  old  virtuoso 
in  Rome  one  day,  this  picture  caught  his  eye,  peeping 
out  from  a  heap  of  other  rubbish,  as  if  for  his  special 
benefit.  The  owner  was  miserably  poor,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  a  bargain  was  struck,  the  picture 
cleaned  of  dust  and  in  Frank's  possession.  He  had 
it  revarnished  and  framed  in  the  heavy  Roman  style, 
and  sent  out  of  the  country  as  soon  as  possible,  for 
fear  of  losing  it.  He  has  a  copy  of  the  "  Cumsean 
Sibyl "  too,  from  that  in  the  Borghese  palace,  which  is 


I  N.    A  M  E  R  I  C  A  .  117 

very  beautifu.  with  about  a  dozen  others  of  lesser 
beauty  and  merit. 

Then  he  has  a  parcel  of  old  manuscripts,  black- 
letter  volumes,  and  ancient  prints  ;  a  copy  of  Tasso 
published  in  Venice  1670,  and  a  history  of  the  sacred 
wars  of  Jerusalem,  published  in  1562 — pretty  venera 
ble  books  of  their  class.  I  can  find  nothing  to  criticise 
in  any  of  my  friend's  arrangements  ;  everything  is  in 
good  taste,  plain,  substantial  and  for  use,  not  show. 
His  grounds  look  in  fine  condition  too,  though  the 
season  is  too  late  for  a  great  display  of  flowers  in  the 
parterres,  but  there  is  fruit  in  abundance. 

"  Now,  Frank,  for  the  wife,  and  you  will  be  settled 
for  life  as  comfortably  as  any  one  I  know.  When  does 
the  wedding  come  off?" 

"  Xext  week,"  replies  Frank,  "  I  shall  go  away  again 
to-morrow  and  be  back  with  my  wrife  in  a  fortnight 
from  to-day.  I  will  write  you  in  a  day  or  two  con 
cerning  my  arrangements.  Come  this  way  and  see 
what  I  purpose  doing." 

The  face  of  the  cliff  in  the  rear  of  the  house  is  too 
precipitous  for  any  one  to  descend  without  considerable 
agility  ;  so  Frank  intends  building  a  staircase,  with 
one  or  two  landings,  from  the  lawn  above  to  the  shady 
depths  ;>f  the  glen,  through  which  are  winding  walks 
of  miles,  pleasant  views,  a  stream,  and  the  pond  men 
tioned  before.  These  little  valleys,  hemmed  in  by 


118  RURALLIFE 

wooded  hills,  are  frequent  features  of  our  country  here 
about,  and  some  of  them  are  very  lovely ;  a  few  trees 
cut  away  to  make  winding  walks,  and  Nature  does  the 
rest  for  your  pleasure  ground. 

"It  will  be  an  improvement,  Frank,  but  let  me 
suggest  an  addition.  Over  the  commmencement  of 
the  stairs — here,  where  we  staud,  build  a  tower  twenty 
or  thirty  feet  high,  with  an  ascent  to  the  top  inside. 
See  what  a  splendid  view  you  will  have — the  river 
there,  mountains  here,  and  the  depths  below — I  should 
think  five  hundred  feet  from  the  top  of  the  tower." 

"  A  good  idea,  Harry,  but  I  cannot  do  it  this  year, 
my  purse  is  not  long  enough ;  another  season  we  will 
think  of  it  again.  You  had  better  sell  out  at  Hermit's 
Dell  and  build  on  that  lot  south  of  my  garden.  I  won't 
charge  you  much  for  the  ground,  in  fact  I  have  more 
than  I  really  want.  Come  now,  think  seriously  of  it ; 
how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  have  you  so  near — and  we 
could  improve  together  ;  have  a  Paradise  here  one  of 
these  days.  I  guarantee  Minnie  would  approve  of  it ; 
you  know  she  will  be  very  lonesome  after  Blanche 
leaves." 

"  I  will  say  as  you  do,  Frank — I  will  think  of  it. 
We  have  not  lived  long  enough  at  Hermit's  Dell  to 
become  very  strongly  attached  to  it,  though  it  is  very 
pleasant,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  would  bring  a  good 
price,  if  put  into  market.  I  agree  with'  you  that  it 


IN     AMERICA.  119 

would  be  delightful  to  live  so  near  each  other,  especially 
on  Minnie's  account,  and  I  shall  hardly  dare  to  hroach 
the  subject  to  her ;  but  I  will  as  soon  as  I  get  home." 
We  spend  the  afternoon  at  the  pond,  fishing,  and 
take  some  fine  lake  bass  which  have  been  bred  here, 
originally  transported  from  the  northern  lakes.  The 
oid  man  tells  us  afterward,  that  his  hoy  has  caught 
them  weighing  seven  pounds.  Frank  will  not  have  to 
depend  upon  the  river  for  fish.  Then  the  streams 
abound  in  trout,  though  not  very  large. 

We  take  a  basket  full  with  us  in  my  wagon,  for 
Frank  returns  home  with  me  to-night,  wishing  to  see 
Blanche  before  his  departure  South.  He  says  it  is 
the  last  drive  he  will  take  with  me  as  a  single  man ; 
for  he  does  not  like  to  be  called  or  to  call  himself  a 
bachelor.  He  thinks  he  is  too  young  for  that. 

"  Yes,  Frank,  but  I  hope  we  shall  have  many  more 
rides  and  walks  together,  and  hunts  too.  I  was  in 
hopes  we  would  have  been  able  to  go  to  Indian  lake 
or  the  Adirondacks  this  fall,  and  revive  some  of  our 
old  memories.  I  often  think  of  old  '  Uncle  Josh,' 
don't  you  ?  and  '  little  Kate,'  as  we  used  to  call  her. 
How  time  does  go  ?  just  think  how  long  ago  that  was. 
But  I  cannot  ask  you  to  go  deer-hunting  this  fall ;  but 
in  June:  if  we  all  live,  we  might  go  to  the  Saranac 
lakes,  trout-fishing,  and  bring  home  a  can  full  to  pu* 
in  your  pond.  They  would  thrive  here  famously." 


120  RURAL     LIFE 

"  I  should  like  nothing  better,  Harry,  if  it  can  he  so 
arranged ;  as  for  deer-hunting,  that  last  tramp  we  had 
through  the  snow  in  those  swamps  and  over  the 
"  wind-falls  "  about  Indian  lake,  T  am  almost  sick  ol 
it ;  but  we  were  too  late  that  season.  Do  you  remem 
ber  Bill  Tanner,  and  "  Ike"  as  the  loggers  called  him  ? 
What  a  genius  he  was  !  that  fellow  would  have  made 
something  more  than  a  hunter,  if  his  opportunities  had 
been  good.  And  don't  you  often  think  what  a  trick 
that  crack-brained  Tim  played  us,  the  time  we  treed 
a  bear  after  he  had  killed  one  of  the  best  dogs.  How 
true  is  that  saying  the  Chinese  have,  I  saw  translated 
the  other  day — 

'  To  place  in  danger's  foremost  rank 

A  feeble  man, 

Is  but  to  use  a  locust's  shank 
For  your  sedan.'  " 

"  To  change  the  subject,  Frank,  I  have  a  promise 
from  La  Solitaire — I  cannot  help  calling  her  by  that 
title — that  if  she  parts  with  that  "  Magdalen,"  I  shall 
have  it.  She  appears  to  have  a  fancy  to  go  back  to 
Italy  again,  and  I  do  not  blame  her ;  if  she  could 
afford  it,  I  think  she  would  sail  to-morrow.  I  have  an 
idea  of  sounding  her  a  little  farther  on  the  subject,  and 
if  her  poverty  is  the  only  hindrance,  why  we  could 
soon  make  up  an  hundred  or  two  dollars  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  and  that,  with  what  I  would  .sive  her  for  the 


IX     AMERICA.  121 

picture,  would  make  her  comfortable  till  she  reached 
home." 

"  I  will  do  my  part  towards  it.  Harry,  for  I  think 
the  woman  is  deserving  of  sympathy  and  aid,  and  she 
always  appears  grateful  for  any  little  attention  shown 
her ;  I  hope  you  may  get  the  picture,  but  she  idolizes 
it  so,  I  doubt  if  she  will  part  with  it.  She  has  had 
temptation  enough  to  induce  her  to  sell  it,  if  her  story 
is  true,  which  we  cannot  doubt." 

We  are  home  already,  or  nearly  so.  The  ladies  are 
on  the  look-out  for  us  from  the  summer-house  ;  though 
they  know  very  well  from  past  experience,  that  when 
Frank  and  I  get  off  together,  there  is  little  calculation 
to  he  made  concerning  our  movements.  "  However, 
this  time  wTe  are  home  in  good  season,  are  we  not 
Minnie?" 

"  Very  dutiful  young  men,"  she  replies,  "  and  how 
have  you  spent  your  day'?  charmingly,  I  presume." 

Of  course  we  have  to  enter  into  all  the  particulars 
and  descriptions  necessary  to  the  edification  of  our 
friends  till  we  are  "  spun  out,"  and  even  then  Blanche 
asks,  "  Have'nt  you  something  more  to  tell  us?" 


122  RURAL     LIFE 


XVII. 

THE  summer  is  waning,  and  Nature  has  lost  muc* 
of  that  freshness  which  so  enhances  her  beauty.     Th 
sheen  of  ripeness  is  over  woods  and  fields  and  garden-, 
awakening  thoughts  of  Ceres  and  Pomona,  and  the 
vellow-haired  Bacchus. 

It  is  a  season  of  both  labor  and  joy  to  the  farmer, 
for  his  toil  is  rewarded  with  rich  promise  and  opulent 
yield. 

This  is  perhaps  the  last  harvest  season  that  my  good 
neighbor  Mead  may  ever  know,  unless  it  be  in  that 
unknown  clime,  "  where  he  shall  come  again  with 
rejoicing,  bringing  his  sheaves  with  him." 

lie  sent  over  for  me  yesterday,  to  come  and  sit  with 
him  awhiie  ;  for  he  has  been  complaining,  during  the 
past  week,  of  symptoms  which  seem  to  indicate  a 
mortal  disease. 

He  has  been  a  hard-worker  all  his  lifetime,  and  it 
is  telling  on  his  frame  now,  though  to  a  casual  observer 
it  would  not  be  apparent. 

Sitting  on  the  porch  in  his  large  arm-chair,  he  looks 
with  me  over  the  fields  which  he  has  tilled  so  long  and 
well,  and  heaves  a  sigh. 


IN     AMERICA.  123 

"  He  hears  the  Autumn  rustling  in  his  corn, 
Cloud  chases  cloud  across  his  bending  grain  ; 
The  reaper's  scythe-song  greets  the  golden  morn, 
The  soft  eve  welcomes  home  the  loaded  Avain." 

But  he  cannot  go  as  he  used  to,  and  reap  or  bind  with 
as  stalwart  and  tireless  arm  as  the  youngest. 

He  is  beginning  to  despond,  but  I  endeavor  to  cheer 
him  with  the  hope  that  his  day  is  not  ended  yet. 

He  cannot  think  so,  and  besrins  to  talk  more  fami- 

*  o 

liarly  with  me  than  ever  before.  "  I  see  it  all  ahead," 
he  says  ;  "  yes,  I  know  well  when  I  am  gone  that  the 
old  farm  will  run  down  and  go  into  other  hands  before 
long.  The  old  woman  will  soon  follow  me,  and  Abel 
is  young  and  foolish,  always  wants  guiding — running 
after  new  notions  all  the  time,  and  yet  I've  done  my 
best  with  the  boy — but  it's  his  nature — yes,  1  see  it 
all." 

In  some  such  strain  the  old  man  talks  since  he  has 
been  complaining ;  he  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  the 
farm  passing  into  the  hands  of  others,  and  his  prescience 
may  prove  true.  It  is  very  doubtful  if  his  son  follows 
in  his  footsteps. 

Frank  is  married  at  last !  His  letter  conveying  the 
news  arrived  to  day,  and  we  are  all  to  meet  him  and 
his  bride  to-morrow  at  their  beautiful  home.  Blanche 
is  very  happy  of  course,  and  fairly  nervous  with  impa- 


124  -RURAL     LIFE 

tience  to  welcome  her  new  sister,  whom  she  has  never 
seen. 

"  I  wonder  what  her  style  of  beauty  is,"  she  says  ; 
"  Frank  never  would  tell  me  any  particulars  ;  he  said 
I  must  wait  and  see ;  Frank  is  so  funny  some 
times." 

"  No  matter  now,  Blanche,  you  will  see  for  yourself 
in  twelve  hours  or  so.  Come  !  it  is  too  cool  to  sit  on 
the  porch  any  longer  ;«the  dew  is  very  heavy  to-night ; 
let  us  have  one  of  those  '  fantasies'  Frank  brought 
you  ;  the  piano  has  not  been  opened  for  a  month.  I 
want  to  write  a  little  to-night,  and  you  know  that 
music  is  suggestive." 

My  fair  cousin  is  always  obliging,  so  I  have  music 
to  my  heart's  content  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  begin 
ning  with  "  Les  Fugitives,"  and  ending  with  "  Don 
Pasquale."  Blanche  sings  delightfully  too,  but  has 
never  forgiven  me  for  what  she  pleases  to  call  "  a 
piece  of  my  flattery,"  in  my  writing  on  a  page  of  her 
scrap  book,  "  Inscribed  to  Blanche," 

"  So  sweet  in  her  is  music's  power, 
Her  mouth  breaths  fragrance  like  a  flower, 
And  the  bee  passing,  as  he  sips, 
Makes  honey  from  her  odorous  lips." 

Minnie,  always  busy,  is  embroidering  some  fanciful 
article  of  apparel  for  Blanche  s  ward  roue  or  trousseau, 


IN     AMERICA.  125 

which,  from  the  quantity  of  work  and  material  I  have 
seen  for  the  last  six  weeks,  ought  to  last  her  half  a 
lifetime.  But  it  is  nearly  finished  now,  for  in  two 
weeks,  the  eventful  day  will  arrive 

But  here  comes  Bridget  with  a  dish  of  luscious 
grapes,  such  rich  Catawbas  as  Bacchus  never  knew. 
"  Put  away  your  work  for  to-night,  Minnie ;  and 
Blanche,  you  think  you  are  consumptive  sometimes, 
eat  your  fill !  Are  they  not  delicious  ?  and  these  Heath 
peaches !  why,  Minnie,  you  should  keep  these  to 
brandy,  they  are  far  better  than  those  '  Morris  whites' 
you  bought  at  the  nursery  the  other  day." 

We  sit  long  over  our  evening  feast,  and  make  plans 
for  the  next  week  and  wreek  after. 

To-morrow  we  go  to  Briar-clifT.  On  Monday,  Frank 
and  his  wife  must  dine  with  us  ;  and  during  the  week 
we  will  visit  back  and  forth. 

The  week  after,  there  will  be  this  and  that  to  do  in 
preparation  for  Blanche's  wedding,  which  is  to  be  very 

quiet.  After  Madame  R returns  from  the  Falls — 

Niagara  of  course — she  is  to  make  a  visit  at  Glen- 
Clunie,  then  spend  a  week  with  us  and  receive  her 
country  friends. 

"  Then,  Blanche,"  says  Minnie,  and  the  tears  come 
into  her  eyes,  "  you  will  go  to  your  new  home ;  and 
when  shall  we  see  you  again  ?  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
of  it !" 


126  K  URAL     LIFE 

This  makes  Blanche  feel  pathetic,  and  we  have  quite 
a  "  scene"  for  awhile  ;  till  a  little  philosophising  on  my 
part  brings  smiles  again.  After  all,  how  dependent 
we  are  upon  each  other  ! 


AMERICA.  127 


XVIII. 

ANOTHER  month  has  gone  !  and  how  much  that  was 
dear  and  beautiful  to  us  has  gone  with  it  from  our 
view  !  some,  for  a  season — the  rest,  for  ever  ! 

The  birds  of  summer  are  flocking  to  take  their 
accustomed  exodus  towards  the  sunny  South ;  the 
flowers  are  fading,  leaves  beginning  to  wither  and  fall. 
The  woods  are  gorgeous  with  those  countless  tints 
which  no  painter's  pencil  may  copy,  and  which  no 
where  else  in  the  world  are  half  so  beautiful  as  here. 

Blanche  has  gone  too,  and  more  than  birds  or 
flowers,  we  miss  her.  Our  old  neighbor  Mead,  worn 
and  wasted  at  last,  is  receiving  his  reward.  Whilst 
we  were  gay  and  happy,  whilst  sounds  of  mirth  were 
in  our  dwelling,  sadness  and  sighs  were  in  his ;  yet 
we  miss  him  and  sorrow  with  those  who  mourn  a  good 
man,  a  kind  father,  and  a  warm  friend  gone. 

At  Briar-cliff  we  have  been  frequent  and  welcome 
visitors.  Frank  and  his  wife  are  as  happy  as  our 
warmest  wishes  could  have  them. 

I  cannot  picture,  on  the  pages  of  my  diary,  the  face 
and  form  winch  are  my  friend's  delight,  or  echo  in 


128  RURAL     LIFE 

other  ears  the  voice  that  is  his  music.  Enough  it  is 
to  say,  that  she  is  all  his  heart  could  crave — all  that 
can  hless  his  life. 

We  have  all  been  in  such  a  state  ot  excitement 
during  the  last  month,  entertaining-,  and  being  enter 
tained,  "marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,"  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  settle  down  again  to  our  usually  quiet  life. 
Blanche  is  coming  back  to  stay  with  us  awhile,  before 
going  to  the  South  ;  though  she  has  promised  to  spend 
her  summers  with  us.  She  is  happy,  except  in  leav 
ing  us,  and  Hermit's  Dell,  so  rich  in  dear  and  pleasant 
associations. 

Frank  is  making  a  paradise,  almost,  around  him  ; 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  lovelier  spot. 

lie  has  acted  upon  my  suggestion  made  some  time 
ago,  and  is  building  a  tower  upon  the  verge  of  the 
cliff,  which  will  command  a  beautiful  view,  not  only 
of  his  grounds,  but  the  surrounding  country,  and  the 
river  gleaming  in  the  distance. 

The  ravine  below  is  a  peaceful  resort,  and  capable 
of  being  beautified  also.  Yet  Nature  has  done  her 
part,  and  at  this  season — 

"  There, 

The  children  of  the  autumnal  whirlwind  hear 
In  wanton  sport,  those  hright  leaves,  whose  decay, 
Ked,  yellow,  or  ethereally  pale, 


IN     AMERICA.  129 

Rival  the  pride  of  summer.     'Tis  the  haunt 
Of  every  gentle  wind,  whose  breath  can.  teach 
The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity," 

Frank  and  I  spent  a  day  in  and  about  Hermit's  Dell 
last  week,  shooting  quails,  with  which  the  thickets 
abound  this  season.  We  were  very  successful,  and 
on  our  way  home,  stopped  to  chat  with  La  Solitaire, 
as  we  still  call  her,  and  leave  her  a  few  of  the  birds. 
She  still  talks  of  going  back  to  Italy  ;  her  heart  is 
evidently  there.  Frank  asked  her  if  she  would  not 
leave  Pietro  with  him,  and  he  wrould  educate  him  ;  but 
she  prefers  that  her  boy  shall  go  with  her,  if  she 
returns,  and  follow  his  father's  occupation,  for  which 
he  has  a  decided  talent.  He  is  highly  delighted  with 
the  box  of  colors  which  Frank  gave  him,  and  is  com 
mencing  to  use  them. 

Frank  says  that  he  has  no  doubt  I  most  heartily 
wish  for  La  Solitaire's  departure,  hoping  I.  may  get 
the  picture  she  has  promised  me  conditionally ;  but  I 
do  not  plead  guilty  to  being  as  selfish  as  he  insinuates  : 
though  I  must  acknowledge  I  look  at  the  painting  with 
a  covetous  eye  whenever  I  visit  the  owner. 

Poor,  lonely  woman !  she  may  be  happy  in  her  self- 
chosen  and  peculiar  solitude,  but  I  do  not  believe  she 
is  ;  and  we  decide  that  the  next  time  Minnie  goes  to 
see  her,  she  shall  inquire  more  fully  into  her  wanta 

and  wishes. 
9 


130  RURAL     LIFE 

Winter  will  soon  be  here,  and  how  much  better  for 
her  to  be  amidst  the  orange  groves  and  vineyards  of 
her  native  valley,  than  in  this  lonely  glen.  I  am  sure 
her  heart  would  leap  with  joy  were  the  prospect  before 
her ;  but  she  has  too  much  delicacy  to  ask  assistance  : 
or  it  may  be — pride. 

There  are  many  little  improvements  and  alterations 
I  contemplate  making  this  season  about  our  grounds, 
provided  that  Frank  and  his  wife  do  not  prevail  on  us 
to  build  on  that  fair  site  he  has  at  Briar-cliff.  There 
is  no  telling  how  it  may  be ;  it  all  rests  with  Minnie, 
and  she  is  cogitating  on  the  subject.  One  advantage 
at  any  rate,  would  be  in  having  a  good  school  near  at 
hand  for  our  little  Birdie,  one  of  these  days  ;  and 
there  are  other  matters  too  to  be  considered,  which 
make  it  desirable. 

Minnie  and  I  were  caught  in  a  storm  there  a  few 
nights  since,  and  obliged  to  stay  till  morning.  How 
comfortable  it  was  in  the  library,  with  its  glowing 
pictures  and  high-piled  book-cases  !  What  a  scene  of 
quiet  and  domestic  comfort  !  Frank  at  his  desk, 
writing  something  "  funny,"  as  Blanche  says,  for  the 
"Spirit  of  the  Times,"  current e  calamo:  Minnie  and 
the  lady  of  the  house,  buried  amidst  the  cushions  of  a 
luxurious  sofa,  engaged  in  confidential  chit-chat ;  and 
my  humble  self,  stretched  out  in  the  reading  chair, 


IN     AMERICA.  131 

absorbed  in  "  Michelet,"  excepting  the  few  moments 
in  which  I  survey  our  tableau  vivant. 

By  and  by,  when  the  wind  whistles  louder,  and  the 
rain  beats  faster  against  the  windows,  we  get  up  a 
concert  of  our  own  ;  Frank  with  his  flute,  his  wife  on 
her  guitar,  and  Minnie  at  the  piano — together  with 
their  voices — discourse 

"  Soft  Lydian  airs 
Married  to  immortal  verse." 

But  one  rich  voice  is  wanting  to  make  the  harmony 
complete,  and  that  is  Blanche's ;  but  next  week  she 
will  be  here,  and  there  will  be  a  grand  reunion." 

The  storm  is  over,  and  what  a  change  it  has  wrought 
in  the  appearance  of  our  country !  The  trees  are 
almost  leafless,  and  a  phase  of  cheerlessness  is  cast 
over  the  face  of  Nature,  before  so  smiling. 

In  another  month,  it  will  be  winter,  dreary  and  cold 
in  our  northern  latitude,  and  we  shall  be  more  than 
ever  dependent  upon  each  other  for  comfort  and 
enjoyment. 

Another  season,  and  much  of  our  interest  in  Hermit's 
Dell  and  its  surrounding  haunts  may  have  ceased 
Change  is  over  all ! 

"  But  the  unborn  hour, 
Cradled  in  fear  and  hope,  conflicting  storms, 
Who  shall  unveil  ?     Xor  thou,  nor  I,  nor  any 
Mighty  or  wise." 


132  RURAL     LIFE 


XIX. 

THE  winds  of  winter,  laden  with  snow  and  sleet  are 
sweeping  over  the  hills  and  through  the  glens  between 
them,  piling  up  great  drifts  along  our  hedge-rows  and 
shrubbery,  and  shrouding  the  young  evergreens  which 
were  looking  so  verdant  and  cheerful. 

One  only,  a  graceful  hemlock,  remains  uncovered. 
It  stands  in  a  sunoy  corner,  where  the  north  wind  can 
not  reach  it,  and  was  planted  by  our  cousin  Blanche 
on  the  day  of  her  departure. 

"  Something  lively,"  she  said,  "to  remind  you  of  me 
in  the  dreary  winter,  dear  Minnie. " 

Yes,  Blanche,  we  will  often  look  on  your  little  im 
mortelle,  and  think  of  you  in  your  sweet  southern 
home  around  which  no  snows  gather  :  but  as  yet  our 
memories  need  no  prompter. 

It  has  been  a  long  storm,  and  we  have  been  penned 
in-doors  to  profit  and  amuse  Qurselves  as  we  best  could. 
The  snow  lies  over  a  foot  deep,  and  Teddy  and  I,  with 
the  aid  of  "old  Charley,"  have  been  striving  to  bre;ik 
the  road  through  the  dense  drifts  which  cover  our  ap 
proach  from  the  road  houseward.  It  is  very  cold  and 


IN     AMERICA.  133 

severe  work  for  us  all,  but  it  is  over  at  last,  and  that 
necessary  purveyor,  the  butcher,  is  the  first  one  to  reap 
the  advantage  of  our  labor.  He  brings  the  mail  ot 
four  days  with  him  too — a  most  acceptable  packet, 
and  which  will  be  the  means  of  making  one  evening 
at  least  pass  speedily  enough. 

I  go  to  the  house  and  shuffling  off  my  moccasins  on 
the  porch,  doff  my  rough  frieze  overcoat,  and  don 
ning  my  wrapper,  compose  myself  in  the  great  chair 
before  the  fire  for  uninterrupted  enjoyment  of  my  news- 
budget. 

Opening  the  wrapper  I  find  a  letter  from  Blanche  to 
Minnie,  who  is  sitting  near  me  engaged  in  knitting  a 
pair  of  Polish  boots  with  which  to  encase  her  feet 
when  sleighing,  of  which  from  present  prospects  we 
shall  enjoy  a  superabundance. 

The  work  is  thrown  aside  and  she  is  soon  absorbed 
in  the  perusal  of  Blanche's,  epistle,  an  eight-paged  one, 
closely  written. 

I  look  up  from  my  paper  occasionally  upon  her 
face,  over  which  expressions  flit  changeful  as  the 
gleams  and  shadows  of  an  April  day  over  a  fair  land 
scape.  If  I  read  them  aright,  Blanche  must  be  as 
happy  a  bride  "  as  the  sun  shines  upon,"  her  lot  bright 
as  the  skies  which  bend  over  her.  By  and  by  Minnie 
reads  to  me  a  sentence  here  and  there.  May' I  not 
transcribe  one  ? 


134  RURAL     LIFE 

"  Yes,  Minnie,  I  am  very,  very  happy,  my  spirit  is 
in  sunshine  all  the  time,  but  I  oft  en- find  myself  asking 
— Will  I  always  be  thus  happy  ?  Are  there  no  clouds 
in  view? 

"  What  a  blessed  thing  it  is  that  \ve  cannot  look  into 
the  Future  !  .Sometimes  I  feel  a  little  lonesome,  and 
then  I  think  of  you  all  and  wish  I  were  nearer  to  you  : 
but  how  can  I  be' dissatisfied  with  my  lot  ! 

"  I  am  looking  forward  already  to  the  summer,  when 
I  hope  to  make  you  that  promised  visit.  I  suppose 
you  are  enjoying  sleigh-riding  now  to  the  utmost,  but 
I  wish  you  were  here  to  enjoy  the  bananas  you  are 
so  fond  of." 

It  is  a  joy  to  us  that  Blanche  is  thus  happy,  for 
upon  a  nature  like  hers  anything  like  disappointment 
falls  with  a  saddening  influence.  The  letter  is  laid 
away  to  be  re-read  and  answered,  and  I  return  to  my 
papers. 

As  the  afternoon  wears  away,  the  sky  clears  up  and 
the  wind  begins  to  rise  again,  making  the  air  bitter 
celd.  Our  cottage  stands  exposed  to  the  full  force  of 
the  northern  wind,  and,  being  intended  only  as  a  sum 
mer  residence,  we  have  great  difficulty  to  keep  our 
selves  comfortable. 

There  is  a  rap  upon  the  outer  door  :  who  can  it  be 
braving  the  snow  and  wind  ?  I  go  to  the  door  and 
find  that  it  is  Pietro,  the  child  of  La  Solitaire. 


INAMEKICA.  135 

He  is  warmly  clad,  but  he  has  been  up  to  his  waist 
amidst  the  snow-drifts  and  shivers  like  a  leaf.  I  take 
a  broom  to  him  and  beat  off  the  clinging  snow,  then 
bring  him  to  the  fire.  He  has  a  book  in  his  hand, 
one  I  lent  his  mother  some  time  since,  but  his  sole  er 
rand  is  not  to  return  that. 

Well,  Pietro  what  is  it  ?  His  lip  commences  to 
quiver  as  he  tells  us  that  his  mother  is  sick  and  wants 
to  see  us.  She  is  in  need  of  tea  and  sugar  too,  and 
doubtless  of  other  necessaries,  for  she  has  not  been 
able  to  go  to  the  store  very  lately. 

It  is  cold  and  disagreeable  enough,  but  it  is  our 
duty  to  go.  Teddy  is  ordered  to  bring  up  the  light 
sleigh,  for  we  cannot  walk  there,  and  whilst  he  is  get 
ting  ready,  we  fortify  ourselves  as  well  as  possible 
against  the  searching  wind  and  drifting  snow. 

Teddy  comes  with  the  sleigh  well  stocked  with  robes, 
and  Minnie  has  had  the  wisdom  of  providing  a  bottle 
of  hot  water  to  keep  her  feet  warm.  She  has  packed 
a  basket  too  with  little  delicacies  and  necessaries  for 
Bella,  which  she  knows  will  be  acceptable  and  thank 
fully  received. 

We  place  Pietro  between  our  feet  and  Teddy  arrang 
es  the  warm  furs  so  that  not  a  crevice  is  left  for  rude 
Boreas  to  pry  into. 

Though  our  destination  is  but  a  few  moments'  walk 
from  the  cottage  by  the  foot-path,  we  are  obliged  to 


136  RURAL     LIFE 

drive  a  circuit  of  some  four  miles  to  reach  it.  We  find 
the  road  unbroken  after  leaving  our  gate,  and  Charley 
has  about  as  much  as  he  can  do  to  flounder  through  the 

O 

drifts  and  draw  us  after  him. 

The  road  keeps  the  river  bank  for  a  mile  or  two  and 
then  enters  the  woods.  How  beautiful  are  the  cedars 
and  hemlocks,  clothed  as  in  winding  sheets  !  Now  and 
then  a  limb  bursts  through  its  shroud,  emerging,  as  it 
were,  into  life  again,  and  seeming  to  say — 

"  Oh  year !  we  are  immortal,  we  die  not  with  thee." 

It  is  almost  evening  \vhen  \ve  reach  the  narrow  defile 
forming  the  entrance  into  the  glen,  and  in  a  few 
minutes'  time  we  are  at  the  cabin  door.  A  taper  cast? 
its  feeble  glimmer  through  the  window  :  no  human 
form  is  visible  ;  the  scene  is  one  of  utter  loneliness. 

Pietro  emerges  from  his  warm  mufilings,  and  fear 
lessly  jumping  into  the  snow,  opens  the  door.  I  lift 
Minnie  out,  and  placing  her  on  the  threshold,  hand  her 
the  basket  of  provisions,  and  then  make  our  faithful 
co-worker,  Charley,  as  comfortable  as  possible. 

As  I  am  about  to  enter  the  cabin,  Minnie  tells  me 
there  is  no  wood  within,  and  the  fire  is  expiring,  that  I 
must  hunt  up  some  fuel. 

T  find  a  heap  of  dead  branches  against  the  southern 
house-side,  and  with  the  aid  of  Pietro  a  goodly  quantity 


IN"     AMERICA.  137 

is  brought  and  soon  cracking  and  blazing  irxm  the 
hearth. 

Poor  Bella  !  she  is  very  sick,  and  can  scarce  express 
her  thanks  for  our  coming  to  her.  She  has  a  racking 
cough,  and  already  looks  wasted  with  fever,  the  effects 
of  too  much  exposure  to  the  inclement  weather. 

"  Ah,  Bella  !  you  were  born  and  nurtured  under  a 
warmer  sky  than  ours  !  Would  that  you  were  now 
where  your  thoughts  are  oftentimes — amidst  the  orange 
groves  of  sweet  La-Cava." 

"  Yes,  senor,  it  is  my  heart's  wish — but  how  can  I 
return ! " 

As  the  night  gathers,  Minnie  proposes  that  she 
remain  with  the  sick  woman,  for  there  is  no  one  to 
wait  on  her,  and  that  I  return  home  to  bring  some 
other  necessaries  in  the  morning.  The  doctor  must 
be  sent  for  too,  but  that  cannot  be  done  to-niq-ht. 

'  O 

Minnie's  plan  seems  the  wisest  under  the  circumstances, 
and  after  making  everything  snug  I  start  homeward 
alone.  It  is  bitterly  cold,  and  I  rejoice  to  reach  my 
own  fireside  again,  for  I  am  perfectly  impregnated  with 
the  frosty  air  ;  but  the  fragrant  tea  is  steaming  on  the 
hearth,  and  I  arn  in  a  mood  to  enjoy  it. 

Birdie  misses  his  mother,  and  most  pertinaciously 
asks  me  again  and  again  when  she  will  come  back. 
Her  absence  is  a  novelty  to  him,  and  the  reason  I  give 
for  it  is  incomprehensible  to  him. 


138  RUKAL     LIFE 

How  blissful  is  childhood's  unconsciousness  of  the 
pains  and  sorrows  of  humanity  !  Its  sky  is  ever  bright, 
its  flowers  ever  blooming,  and  as  we  look  upon  the 
smoothly  rounded  cheek,  the  lithe  and  dancing  form — 
as  we  hear  the  joyous  prattle  and  unstudied  laugh  of 
childhood,  how  few  of  us  often  sigh  not — 

"  Oh !  what  a  world  of  bcanty  fades  away, 
With  the  winged  hours  of  youth." 

But  Birdie's  prattle  is  soon  hushed  in  slumber,  and  I 
am  alone.  The  wind  sweeps  and  whistles  drearily 
round  the  cottage,  begetting  a  feeling  almost  of  melan 
choly. 

I  take  up  a  paper,  and  turning  to  its  "fun  corner" 
strive  to  laugh  over  its  oddities,  but  it  is  futile  for  me 
to  make  the  endeavor.  My  thoughts  are  in  the  gloomy 
depths  of  Hermit's  Dell — the  sick  chamber  wherein 
Minnie  is  administering  to  the  invalid  Bella. 

She  will  not  sleep  to-night  I  know;  what  a  cheerless 
vigil  she  will  keep  in  that  lonely  dwelling !  Oh, 
woman  !  frail  and  gentle  as  thou  seemest,  thy  spirit  is 
brave  and  strong  ! 

I  have  a  letter  in  my  desk  which  I  prize  very  much. 
It  was  written  by  a  friend  years  ago,  and  I  read  it  very 
often  still.  His  heart  was  almost  broken  when  he 
traced  these  lines  : 

"  Yes,  my  young  wife  is  dead  :  she  was  very  dear  to 


IN     AMERICA.  139 

me  you  know.  It  was  very  hard  for  me  to  give  her 
up,  and  I  cannot  realize  that  she  is  gone.  The  piano 
is  still  open  as  she  left  it  the  day  she  sickened.  There 
is  her  sewing -chair  and  work-table,  and  the  little  gar 
ment  in  the  drawer  still  unfinished.  Her  moss-rose 
and  mignonette  are  blooming  under  the  window,  but 
their  fragrance  is  wasted.  Only  a  year  gone  since  she 
was  a  bride  ;  you  remember  how  lovely  she  looked  in 
her  wreath  of  orange  blossoms. 

"  I  was  sick  once,  and  she  tended  me.  Many  a  long 
hour  she  sat  by  my  bedside,  bathing  my  pulses  when 
they  were  wild  with  fever  :  and  when  I  was  well  again, 
how  happy  she  became,  how  radiant  were  her  smiles. 
Here  is  the  garden,  and  the  little  arbor  overhung  by 
the  passion-vine  and  clematis,  where  we  used  to  sit 
and  talk  of  '  days  gone.'  Oh  !  my  friend  !  I  am  very 
lonely — may  your  heart  and  home  never  be  thus  deso 
late." 

Poor  Fred  !  years  have  gone  since  he  met  his  great 
loss,  but  he  often  talks  and  writes  of  his  "  angel  wife," 
and  has  never  married  again.  With  all  its  wretched 
ness,  his  heart  could  not  wail  with  Edgar  Poe — 

"  Respite,  respite,  and  nepenthe, 

From  the  memories  of  Lenore, 
Quaff!  O  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe, 
And  forget  thy  lost  Lenore." 


HO  RUEALLIFK 


XX. 

WITH  the  morning  light  Teddy  is  despatched  for 
the  physician,  with  a  request  from  me  that  he  will  visit 
Bella  as  soon  as  possible,  for  I  know  not  how  import 
ant  his  services  may  be. 

As  Charley  will  be  in  use  for  an  hour  or  two,  I  put 
on  my  top-boots  and  walk  by  the  nearest  route  to  the 
cabin.  The  path  runs  along  a  steep  hillside  the 
greater  part  of  the  distance,  and  as  the  snow  is  very 
deep  and  I  am  the  first  one  to  break  the  surface,  my 
walk  is  toilsome  enough.  The  little  dwelling  of  Bella 
is  soon  visible,  and  I  perceive  a  thick  column  of  smoke 
curling  upward  from  the  chimney.  They  are  not  suf 
fering  with  cold  at  any  rate,  and  it  has  a  cheerful  look 
too.  When  I  reach  the  house  Minnie  replies  to  my 
summons  at  the  door,  and  if  her  face  is  an  index  of  her 
patient's  condition,  all  is  still  well. 

She  tells  me  that  Bella  passed  the  night  very  com 
fortably,  though  suffering  some  pain  and  oppression. 

"  I  did  not  sleep  a  wink  the  whole  night  through," 
she  continues ;  "  you  have  no  idea  how  lonesome  I  felt 
here,  though  I  did  not  feel  afraid  of  anything.  I  spent 
most  of  the  time  in  reading,  and  when  I  became  tired 


IN     AMERICA.  141 

of  that,  I  stood  the  light  under  the  Magdalen  and  studied 
it  for  an  hour.  I  never  appreciated  its  beauty  before. 
Did  you  send  for  the  doctor  ?  Bella  intimated  last 
evening  that  she  would  like  to  see  the  priest — but  I 
have  had  a  serious  talk  with  her,  and  I  think  she  is 
indifferent  now  to  his  coming  at  all.  I  find  that  she  is 
not  a  very  rigid  Catholic." 

The  doctor  arrives  soon,  and  pronounces  Bella  in  no 
danger  at  present,  though  her  lungs  are  slightly  affected 
• — a  little  medicine,  quiet,  arid  good  nursing  are  all  that 
is  necessary,  and  those  she  will  have. 

Minnie  suggests  that  I  return  home  and  send  Teddy 
after  old  Mrs.  Pike,  who  is  a  capital  nurse,  to  come 
and  remain  at  the  cabin  till  Bella  is  convalescent. 

This  meets  my  approval,  and  after  replenishing  the 
pile  of  fuel  by  the  hearth  I  again  tramp  and  flounder 
through  the  drifts  homeward.  I  find  my  breakfast 
awaiting  me,  and  it  is  discussed  with  a  most  capital 
appetite,  for  I  have  done  hard  service  since  daylight. 
A  covey  of  quail  are  running  over  the  snow  before  the 
door  half  famished,  and  Birdie  and  I  amuse  ourselves 
with  feeding  them.  Hunger  has  tamed  them  so  that 

o  O 

they  venture  within  a  few  feet  of  us.  If  Bella  were 
well  she  would  soon  entice  them  to  her  tiaps,  and  it 
may  be  their  fate  still  to  get  into  them. 

"  Teddy  has  gone  after  the  nurse,  and  when  he 
returns,  Birdie,  we  will  go  after  mamma." 


142  RURAL     LIFE 

The  little  fellow  says  it  is  cold,  but  I  tell  Bridget  to 
bundle  him  up  in  shawls  and  I  will  see  that  he  does 
not  suffer  in  the  sleigh. 

In  due  time  we  are  off,  Birdie  nestled  among  the 
furs  and  blankets,  his  little  face  only  visible,  reminding 
me  of  a  tiny  chicken  peeping  from  beneath  its  mother's 
wings.  It  is  his  first  sleigh-ride,  and  he  is  delighted 
with  the  jingle  of  the  bells  and  the  fine  snow  tha-t 
Charley  flings  up  for  the  wrind  to  dust  vis  with. 

We  find  good  Mrs.  Pike  installed  into  her  office,  and 
Minnie  waiting  patiently  for  us  to  take  her  home.  Tell 
ing  the  nurse  to  send  us  word  by  Pietro  if  we  can  be 
of  any  service,  we  drive  rapidly  homeward. 

Minnie  is  tired  out,  and  is  glad  to  reach  home  again, 
but  there  wre  find  Frank  and  his  wife,  who  have  arrived 
during  my  absence,  and  promise  to  spend  the  rest  of 
the  day  with  us.  They  are  sorry  to  hear  of  Bella's 
sickness,  for  they  already  feel  as  much  interest  in  her 
as  we  do.  Frank  suggests  that  we  delay  the  project 
no  longer  of  trying  to  enable  her  to  return  home  when 
the  Spring  opens.  We  know  she  is  longing  to  do  so, 
and  only  wants  the  means. 

"  Two  or  three  hundred  dollars,  Harry,  will  cover 
all  expenses,  and  provide  for  contingencies  ;  I  will  give 
a  quarter  of  the  amount,  and  I  know  you  will  second 
me  :  the  rest  can  soon  be  raised  among  our  neighbors." 

Minnie   and  I  promise  co-operation,   and  in  a  few 


IX     AMERICA.  143 

weeks  Bella's  heart  will  know  a  new  joy,  if  our  pro 
mises  are  good. 

The  river  is  covered  with  an  unbroken  sheet  of  ice, 
and  we  see  the  fishermen  going  out  to  lift  their  "  fykes" 
which  are  generally  burdened  with  fish.  The  wind 
has  swept  off  the  snow,  and  Frank  proposes  that  we 
drive  over  the  river  and  back  for  the  sake  of  a  good 
trot.  His  horses  are  brought  up  and  we  are  off.  The 
river  is  over  a  mile  in  width,  but  in  five  minutes  we  are 
across  and  warming  our  fingers  at  the  fishermen's  fire 
in  the  hut  upon  the  shore. 

We  buy  some  fine  perch  of  them,  and  retrace  our 
way,  stopping  to  see  old  Diedrich,  the  genius  of  the 
lighthouse.  He  does  not  have  to  light  his  lantern  now, 
but  he  lives  beneath  it  because  it  is  his  only  shelter. 
He  is  busy  at  his  old  work,  making  nets  to  sell  to  the 
shad-fishers,  and  smoking  his  pipe  by  way  of  recrea 
tion.  He  speaks  very  highly  of  that  last  tobacco  we 
brought  him,  which  insinuation  we  understand  :  but 
unfortunately  have  omitted  taking  any  with  us  this 
time.  "  We  will  bring  some  the  next  visit  we  make 
you,  Diedrich,"  says  my  companion.  "  Gute  !"  is  his 
laconic  reply,  tinctured  with  a  tone  of  disappointment, 
and  we  are  off  again. 

We  are  at  home  in  time  to  find  dinner  on  the  table, 
and  the  ladies  looking  out  for  us,  for  with  the  giass 
they  could  see  all  our  movements. 


144  RURAL     LIFE 

"  Harry,  what  do  you  think,"  says  Minnie,  "  we 
have  an  invitation  to  domesticate  ourselves  at  Briar- 
cliff  till  the  weather  becomes  milder.  Kate  will  take 
no  refusal ;  she  says  she  knows  we  are  suffering  with 
the  cold  here,  and  that  you  won't  refuse." 

"  Well,  Minnie,  as  far  as  the  cold  is  concerned,  it  is 
true  enough.  The  house  is  not  proof  against  these 
northwesters,  and  as  far  as  our  comfort  is  concerned,  I 
think  it  a  very  desirable  change,  but  " 

"  No  '  buts'  are  necessary  at  all,  cousin  Harry," 
replies  Kate  ;  "  there  is  nothing  to  keep  you  here  what 
ever  ;  the  servants  are  trusty,  we  have  abundance  of 
room,  and  to  spare,  and  it  will  add  much  to  our  happi 
ness  to  have  you  with  us.  You  must  go  ovei 
with  us  this  afternoon,  Bridget  and  Birdie,  bag  and 
baggage." 

Frank  is  not  only  as  decided  but  quite  peremptory  in 
trying  to  persuade  us,  and  at  last  we  asseat  to  the 
arrangement. 

We  leave  the  house  and  its  appurtenances  under  the 
charge  of  Teddy,  promising  but  a  week's  absence,  and 
all  packed  in  Frank's  commodious  sleigh  we  speed  to 
wards  Briar-cliff. 

The  road  is  nowr  in  fine  order  from  frequent  travel, 
and  in  half  an  hour  we  are  at  the  mansion.  What  an 
air  of  comfort  there  is  about  it  :  a  veritable  Arctic  at 
mosphere  could  not  penetrate  its  thick  stone  walls. 


IN     AMERICA.  145 

There  is  a  groat  stove  in  the  hall  whose  capacity  is 
suggestive  of  never-failing  coal-fields  :  and  in  the 
library  a  hickory  fire  that  would  put  "  Uncle  Josh's"  to 
shame  is  fiercely  blazing. 

Intimately  acquainted  and  connected  as  we  are  with 
the  dwellers  here,  Minnie  and  I  soon  make  ourselves 
perfectly  "  at  home,"  complying  with  the  spirit  of  our 
friends'  often  repeated  wish  that  we  shall  do  so. 

Evening  comes  with  its  social  tea-quaffing,  and 
afterward  we  gather  in  the  library  to  a  cozy  game  of 
chess  or  bagatelle. 

By  and  by  we  have  music — the  spirit-stirring  drink 
ing  song,  Crambamboli,  which  Frank  sings  finely. 

It  is  echoed  from  the  kitchen,  in  which  department 
of  the  household  a  young  German  is  instated.  As  the 
notes  of  a  tuneful  lied  which  we  sing  afterward  come 
to  his  ear,  I  can  divine  his  thoughts  if  he  cherishes  fond 
memories  of  the  Fatherland.  He  is  again  amidst  the 
vineyards  by  the  Rhine,  or  beneath  the  lindens  that 
o'erhang  the  Neckar.  He  remembers  the  day  when, 
embarking  for  his  new  home,  he  listened  tearfully  to  the 
melodies  of  the  old.  There  were  others  with  him  too : 
some  perhaps  were  his  kindred  :  but  where  are  they 
now  ?  Away  through  the  valleys  of  the  West,  by  the 
banks  of  the  Ohio  and  the  Rio  Grande,  they  build  their 
quaint  cabins,  and  gather  their  viny  harvests. 

But  our  songs  are  over,  and  whilst  our  fair  compan- 
10 


146  RURAL     L  I  ¥  X 

ions  draw  their  lounge  aside  lor  a  private  tcte-d-lete, 
Frank  takes  from  his  writing-desk  a  box  of  old  letters 
which  he  wishes  I  would  assist  him  to  sort  and  file. 
They  are  the  accumulation  of  years,  and  some  are  to 
be  garnered  again — others,  to  feed  the  fire. 

How  many  memories  do  those  rustling  pages  awaken  ! 
how  varied  the  phases  of  life  they  chronicle  !  Some 
are  worn  with  frequent  reading — others  unrumpled  and 
scarcely  opened.  Of  those  who  wrote  them,  a  few, 
very  few  were  friends  :  the  rest,  not  foes  perhaps,  but 
selfish  and  calculating  scriveners.  The  characters 
upon  some  of  those  chequered  pages  were  traced  by 
fingers  which  shall  hold  the  pen  no  more.  Their  writ 
ing  is  familiar  as  were  the  faces  of  those  w7ho  wrote — 
faces  we  have  looked  not  on  for  many  a  long  yeai. 
What  so  recalls  the  voice  and  smile  of  a  lost  friend  as 
a  letter  of  his  inditing?  Others  have  forgotten  him — 
but  to  you  he  seems  to  speak  with  silent  tongue — you 
hold  in  yours  his  invisible  fingers. 

"  Here,  Harry,"  said  Frank,  as  he  handed  me  a  let 
ter  of  several  pages,  "is  one  I  prize  highly  and  often 
read.  It  was  written  by  a  chum  of  mine  only  a  few 
months  since.  He  was  a  noble  fellow,  and  had  his 
health  been  spared  him,  would  have  made  his  mark 
upon  our  country's  page.  I  do  not  know  of  any  one 
more  thoroughly  educated  or  possessing  more  general 
information.  He  was  a  deep  thinker  and  a  great  ob- 


I  X     A  M  ERICA.  147 

server  of  men  and  things,  neglecting  nothing  that  could 
add  to  his  fund  of  useful  knowledge. 

"  He  used  to  take  a  great  interest  in  politics,  and  1 
have  often  heard  him  say  it  was  his  ambition  to 
shine  in  public  life.  Poor  fellow  !  he  died  of  a  cancer 
before  any  of  his  hopes  were  answered.  I  think  that 
is  the  last  letter  he  ever  wrote,  and  I  never  read  it 
without  thinking  of  that  touching  sentiment  uttered  by 
Henry  Clay  when  he  felt  that  he  was  failing.  What 
a  depth  of  regretful  feeling  is  contained  in  those  few 
lines  !  Do  you  not  remember  them  ?  I  believe  my 
memory  serves  me  right — '  If  the  days  of  my  useful 
ness  be  indeed  past,  I  desire  not  to  linger  an  impo 
tent  spectator  of  the  oft-scanned  field  of  life.' 

"  There  are  passages  in  that  letter  imbued  with  the 
same  spirit.  After  all,  Harry,  how  vain  are  our  cal 
culations  and  endeavors." 

I  read  the  letter  so  full  of  regrets,  yet  not  repinings, 
and  then  Frank  hands  me  another  written  in  a  different 
vein.  It  is  from  "  a  musical  genius"  studying  abroad, 
and  is  full  of  the  spirit  which  characterizes  the  works 
of  Beethoven  and  Mozart,  and  others  of  their  school. 
Its  pages,  written  almost  in  rhythmical  measure,  give 
evidence  of  a  mind  silted  with  an  intense  perception 
of  all  that  is  beautiful  and  divine  in  music.  It  remains 
*o  be  seen  whether,  master  of  his  art,  he  will  one  day 
exclaim  with  the  dying  Mozart — "  Now  I  begin  to  see 


148  RURAL     LIFE 

what  might  be  done  in  music  :"  or,  disappointed  in  his 
aspirings,  sigh  with  Jean  Paul  Richter — "  Away,  music, 
away  !  thou  tellest  me  of  joys  I  shall  never  realize." 

So  for  an  hour  or  two  we  sit  over  that  receptacle  of 
old  letters  and  discuss  its  contents.  Out  of  hundreds, 
a  few  only  are  laid  aside  to  be  kept  for  reperusal — 
mementoes  of  those  who  are  held  worthy  of  remem 
brance. 


IN     AMERICA. 


XXI. 

"  COME,  Frank  !  it  is  a  fine,  still  morning  :  what  do 
you  say  to  a  drive  over  to  Hermit's  Dell  ?  I  promised 
Bolla  that  we  would  not  neglect  her,  and  at  the  same 
time  there  are  matters  at  the  cottage  I  wish  to  look 
after." 

tSuch  was  Minnie's  salutation  and  proposition  to  our 
host  at  breakfast  this  morning. 

o 

"  Only  grant  me  an  hour  to  scribble  off  a  letter  or 
two,  and  I  and  the  horses  are  at  your  service  for  the 
day,"  is  Frank's  reply. 

It  is  indeed  a  pleasant  winter's  day !  The  snow 
lies  dense  and  level  over  the  lawn  ;  here  and  there  a 
hemlock  or  pine  relieving  its  glistening  surface  with 
its  dark  shadows,  and  giving  a  phase  of  cheerfulness 
to  the  else  gloomy  woods.  The  sunshine  falls  warmly 
into  the  winter  conservatory  on  the  southern  porch, 
and  sitting  within  it,  inhaling  its  delicious  atmosphere, 
laden  with  scents  of  geranium  and  orange  blossoms, 
we  fancy  that  the  breath  of  a  summer's  day  is  here 
.  caged  and  kept  for  our  enjoyment. 

Frank    i-omes   here   sometimes  to   enjoy  his  cigar 


150  RURAL     LIFE 

which  his  wife  declaims  against  most  forcibly ;  but  he 
defends  himself  with  the  plea  that  he  drives  away  the 
spiders  which  are  particularly  obnoxious  to  her :  so  lie 
gains  his  point.  But  the  horses  are  at  the  door.  Frank 
has  finished  his  epistles,  and  whilst  the  ladies  are  pull 
ing  on  their  Polish  boots,  we  arrange  the  hot  bricks  111 
a  damp  blanket  on  the  bottom  of  the  sleigh,  and  other 
wise  consult  the  comfort  of  our  companions  ;  for  Frank 
slily  whispers  in  my  ear,  "  I'm  going  to  give  them  a 
drive  to  Leeville." 

Our  destination,  then,  is  nearly  thirty  miles  distant, 
and  the  prospect  is  that  we  shall  not  get  home  again  to 
night. 

Frank  takes  the  reins,  for  our  vehicle  holds  but  four 
persons  comfortably,  and  in  half  an  hour  we  are  at  the 
door  of  Bella's  cabin.  Minnie  runs  in  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  and  returns  with  tidings  that  the  invalid  is  fast 
improving  and  very  comfortable,  wanting  nothing  but 
a  few  more  days  of  good  Abby  Pike's  nursing. 

As  the  cottage  we  call  our  home  is  on  the  route  we 

'-intend  taking,  Minnie  tells  our  Jehu  not  to  drive  by 

without  stopping,  for  she  begins  to  suspect  that  Frank 

and  I  have  had  our  heads  together,  concocting   some 

scheme  or  other  for  their  surprise  or  amusement. 

At  home  we  find  everything  as  it  should  be  in-doors, 
but  have  to  force  a  perfect  barricade  of  snow,  piled 
upon  the  porch  by  the  busy  winds,  before  effecting  ac 


IX     AMERICA.  151 

entrance.  Teddy  is  now  sole  occupant,  for  during  our 
absence  his  kitchen  companions  have  gone  to  visit 
their  friends  elsewhere.  A  good  hickory-wood  fire  is 
blazing  in  the  kitchen,  whither  we  descend  to  warm 
our  fingers  preparatory  to  a  start,  and  at  the  same 
time  inspect  the  larder,  which  we  fear  is  nearly  empty. 
It  is  rather  soon  after  breakfast  for  us  to  be  hungry, 
but  the  ladies  being  admonished  that  they  have  a  long 
ride  before  them,  think  it  best  to  fortify  themselves  a 
little.  Minnie  produces  part  of  a  smoked  salmon  from 
a  dark  corner,  and  Kate  has  spied  out  ajar  of  pickles, 
of  which,  with  most  of  her  sex,  she  is  uncommonly 
fond.  There  is  no  lack  of  bread  and  butter,  so  whilst 
our  fair  companions  take  their  "  cold  snap,"  Frank 
and  I  imbibe  a  warm  potation  whose  flavor  awakens 
memories  of  "old  Schiedam." 

But  Teddy  calls  out,  "  Mister  Frank,  the  beasts  are 
shiverin',''  despite  of  their  blankets,  and  so,  once  more 
snugly  tucked  in,  we  are  off  again. 

Away  through  the  woods,  along  the  river  bank,  and 
then  into  the  woods  again,  we  speed  at  a  gallant  ratet 
till  we  reach  "  the  Point"  where  we  are  to  cross  the 
river.  The  snow  covers  the  surface  only  in  de 
tached  places,  and  keeping  watch  for  the  air-holes 
we  drive  straight  across.  The  river  is  here  almost 
a  mile  in  width,  but  the  ice  is  nearly  afoot  thick, 
and  perfectly  solid,  so  we  feel  there  is  no  risk  ID 


152  RURAL     LIFE 

crossing  on  it.  As  we  near  the  other  shore,  we  find 
the  tide  has  overflowed  the  surface,  to  the  depth  of 
several  inches,  and  become  frozen  again.  Our  horses 
break  through  it,  which  alarms  the  ladies  some,  but  it 
is  soon  over. 

We  take  the  shore  near  an  old-fashioned  tavern, 
which  Frank  and  I  well  remember  as  the  rendezvous  of 
a  sleighing  party  in  which  we  were  prominent  actors 
a  few  years  ago.  There  is  the  same  flaunting  sign 
swinging  and  creaking,  the  same  tall  porch,  and  there 
is  the  identical  woolly-headed  "  Caesar,"  \\ho  rubbed 
down  Frank's  horses  so  faithfully  on  that  eventful 
night. 

"  We  must  stop  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  Han^," 
said  Frank,  and  so  we  do.  The  old  negro  recognizes 

'  o  o 

us,  but  says,  "  Dem  ain't  the  bosses,  massa — yah-yah  !" 
No,  Cassar,  and  where  are  the  fair  forms  which  they 
bore  that  night  ?  where  is  Mabel  Lee,  the  belle  of  the 
frolic;  where  her  fair  companion?  Are  they  living 
.still,  mindful  oftentimes  of  by-gone  days,  or  are  they 
in  that  realm  where  retrospection  neither  gladdens  or 
saddens  the  spirit ! 

Leeville  is  still  some  ten  miles  distant,  but  we  are 
on  the  post  road,  now  beaten  smooth  and  hard  by  con 
stant  travel. 

A  fine  farming  country  here  stretches  for  miles 
westward  from  the  river.  Great  red  barns  arc  visible 


TN     AMERICA.  153 

from  the  road,  doubtless  heaped  high  with  hay  and 
grain,  for  there  are  stacks  without — the  surplus  of 
garnered  crops. 

Our  road  courses  amidst  varied  scenes  :  now,  through 
a  piece  of  woodland  ;  now  ascending,  then  descending ; 
here,  over  a  wide  stream,  on  stone  arches ;  there, 
through  a  region  of  broad  and  level  meadows.  The 
snow  lies  deeply  over  all  now,  but  in  the  summer  time 
it  must  be  a  beautiful  country  that  surrounds  us. 

The  moon  lights  us  into  Leeville,  that  quiet  lit 
tle  village  in  which  Frank  arid  I  have  spent  so  many 
pleasant  days.  We  pass  by  the  old  homestead,  stand 
ing  away  back  from  the  road,  and  dimly  seen  through 
the  dense  locusts  and  elms  which  surround  it.  My 
friend's  right  and  title  to  that,  substantial  old  mansion 
has  been  long  since  conveyed  into  other  hands,  and 
nothing  about  it  belongs  to  him  now  but  its  pleasant 
associations. 

We  stop  for  a  moment  upon  the  bridge  that  crosses 
a  little  stream  flowing  near  the  village,  "  There, 
Kale,"  says  Frank,  pointing  to  the  spot  where  the  wil 
lows  thickly  cluster,  "  there  is  a  deep  pool  in  which  a 
poor  misguided  girl  drowned  herself  a  few  years  ago. 
I  will  tell  you  more  about  it  when  we  reach  the 
tavern." 

We  have  had  a  long  drive,  and  though  not  suffering 
with  cold,  thanks  to  the  hot  bricks  and  thick  furs,  it  is 


154  H  TT  R  A  L      LIFE 

pleasant  to  gather  round  the  wide  hearth  in  the  parlor 
of  the  tavern,  which  the  family  have  vacated  for  our 
accommodation. 

Old  Walton  is  the  landlord  still,  and  recognizing  us 
as  friends,  strives  to  make  us  comfortable. 

Supper  is  soon  prepared,  and  a  good  supper  too,  con 
sisting  of  coffee,  buckwheat  cakes,  fresh  pickerel  from 
a  neighboring  lake,  and  sundry  other  accompaniments  ; 
to  all  of  which  we  do  ample  justice. 

The  dry  wood  is  heaped  upon  the  fire,  and  cozily 
disposed  around  it,  Frank  and  I  revive  old  memories. 
We  remember  the  harvests-home,  the  corn-huskings, 
the  apple-peelings,  and  all  the  other  frolics  in  which 
we  once  took  a  part.  An  hour  or  two  passes  away  in 
such  converse,  till  Frank  is  reminded  of  the  little  his 
tory  he  promised  to  give  concerning  the  suicide  girl. 

"  I  shall  tell  it  hastily,"  Frank  says,  "  for  it  is  get 
ting  late,  and  we  are  all  tired." 

O  ' 

"  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  farmer  in  this 
vicinity,  and  it  may  be  that  her  parents  are  living  yet, 
although  they  were  pretty  old  people  at  the  time  the 
affair  happened.  During  the  summer,  a  party  of 
young  men  from  the  city  came  here  to  rusticate,  fish, 
and  shoot  woodcock,  for  the  country  abounded  in 
game. 

"  They  were  wild  boys,  full  of  fun,  and  ready  for 
any  frolic  :  cruising  about  in  every  direction,  and  < 


T  X     AMERICA.  155 

making  the  acquaintance  of  all  the  pretty  girls  for  miles 
around.  Every  few  days  they  would  get  up  a  pic-nic 
or  a  fishing  frolic,  or  something  of  the  kind.  The 
girls  felt  flattered  with  the  attentions  of  these  city 
beaux,  though  I  don't  suppose  any  one  of  them  had  the 
remotest  idea  of  picking  up  a  wife  here.  At  any  rate 
they  all  had  their  favorites,  and  it  is  only  to  be  won 
dered  at  that  there  were  not  more  broken  hearts  than 
Bell  Darragh's.  Poor  girl !  she  was  young  and  very 
susceptible,  and  was  deep  in  love  before  she  knew  it. 
The  young  man  who  waited  on  her  most  was  well  cal 
culated  to  win  a  girl's  heart,  but  I  am  convinced  that 
he  was  not  aware  how  deep  an  impression  he  had 
made.  It  was  the  talk,  however,  of  the  whole  neigh 
borhood,  how  deeply  the  girl  was  in  love  with  him,  till 
by  and  by  it  reached  his  ears.  He  did  not  give  it  much 
attention,  but  rather  laughed  at  it  as  only  a  passing 
fancy,  though  at  the  same  time  withdrawing  his  atten 
tions  to  a  certain  degree  ;  for  I  believe-  that  he  was 
strictly  honorable.  It  was  different  with  the  girl;  and 
though  her  companions  laughed  at  her  and  called  her 
foolish,  it  was  soon  evident  that  she  was  serious  in  her 
attachment.  Her  temperament  was  peculiar,  and  she 
became  quite  melancholy ;  would  not  go  out,  and 
refused  to  join  any  more  of  the  parties  that  were  made 
up. 

''  Her  father  sent   her  away  to  an  uncle  living  in  a 


156  RURAL     LIFE 

different  part  of  the  country,  thinking  a  change  of 
scene  would  have  a  good  effect  upon  her ;  but  it  was 
of  no  use.  When  she  came  home,  the  young  men  had 
all  left,  and  the  one  to  whom  she  was  attached,  not 
dreaming  but  that  her  fancy  for  him  would  cease  on 
his  departure,  had  thought  it  needless  to  enter  into  any 
explanation.  This  was -a  twofold  disappointment  to 
her.  She  became  moody  and  mopish,  and  subject  to 
melancholy  spells,  so  that  her  parents  were  obliged  to 
watch  her  constantly. 

"  She  went  on  so  for  several  weeks,  till  one  morning 
she  did  not  make  her  appearance  at  breakfast,  which 
was  very  unusual.  Her  mother  went  up  to  her  room, 
but  it  was  vacant  and  the  bed  had  not  been  disturbed. 
The  old  people  were  much  alarmed,  and  the  news 
soon  spread  through  the  village  that  Bell  Darrairh  was 

1  O  _3  O 

missing. 

"  Her  body  was  found  in  less  than  an  hour.  It  lay 
upon  the  pebbly  bottom  of  the  pool  under  the  willows 
that  I  pointed  out  to  you  near  the  bridge.  Her  face 
was  turned  upward,  and  those  who  saw  it  first  said  that 
it  glistened  through  the  clear  water  calm  and  beautiful 
in  its  expression.  Every  means  were  resorted  to  in  the 
hope  of  restoring  her,  but  she  was  perfectly  lifeless. 

"  I  saw  her  soon  after  she  was  taken  from  the  water 
Her  bonnet  hung  upon  the  willows,  as  if  to  show  the 
spot  where  she  laid  herself  down  to  die.  She  had 


IN     AMERICA.  157 

dressed  herself  in  a  white  robe,  with  more  than  usual 
care,  and  had  even  twined  some  white  rose-buds  in  her 
hair.  It  was  a  fair  but  sad  sight,  and  as  I  looked  upon 
the  lifeless  form,  surrounded  by  wailing  friends,  I  could 
not  but  think  and  exclaim,  how  soon 

u  '  The  illusion  o'er,  the  spell  dispersed, 
Life  and  life's  bubble  burst.' 

"  It  cast  a  gloom  over  the  village  for  weeks,  for  Bell 
was  a  general  favorite  with  young  and  old.  I  have 
often  thought  how  sadly  her  young  love  was  wasted 
and  quenched,  and  how  many  of  us  would  give  the 
world,  if  we  could,  to  be  the  object  of  such  devotion  as 
hers." 

Such  was  Frank's  relation,  and  strictly  true.  I 
remember  well  when  it  occurred,  but  our  companions 
had  never  heard  of  the  incident  before. 

"  It  is  a  sad  story,"  says  one,  "  but  such  things  hap 
pen  oftener  than  we  know  of.  The  world  scoffs  at 
there  being  such  a  thing  as  a  broken  heart,  but  I  know 
of  two  in  rny  own  experience.  Harry,  you  remember 

Julia  C !  you  know  the  doctor  said  she  died  of  a 

galloping  consumption  :  but  her  intimate  friends  knew 
better." 

It  is  late  before  we  retire,  although  our  breakfast  is 
to  be  ready  by  daylight,  so  we  can  reach  home  in  good 
season.  And  a  good  night's  rest  we  have  on  the  laven- 


158  K   URAL      LIFE 

tier  scented  beds,  yet  promptly  obeying  old  Walton's 
summons  at  our  doors  ere  daylight. 

The  horses,  equally  refreshed  and  well  cared  for  as 
ourselves,  are  at  the  door,  anxious  to  turn  their  heads 
homeward  again,  and  it  is  not  long  before  they  are  doing 
so.  We  propose  taking  the  road  running  parallel  with 
the  river  no-w,  and  cross  it  some  ten  miles  farther  down 
than  we  did  yesterday,  consequently  nearer  Briar-cliff. 

The  road  is  tortuous  and  hilly,  and  the  ride  rather 
tedious,  but  we  reach  Briar-cliff  before  evening,  m-uch 
to  the  relief  of  the  domestics  and  delight  of  Birdie,  who 
could  n-ot  cliviive  the  reason  ol  our  absence. 

Again  in  the  library  with  its  warm  atmosphere  and 
glowing  hangings,  we  find  our  city  papers  and  a  letter 
from  Blanche  to  her  brother.  He  reads  to  us  passages 
from  it,  and  she  is  amidst  our  circle  again,  but  impal 
pable,  invisible.  She  has  been  journeying  a  few  days 
in  Florida,  and  gives  us  charming  descriptions  of  its 
almost  tropical  scenery  and  climate. 

"  Why  cannot  you  all  make  me  a  visit  before  spring? 
it  i-s  only  a  trip  of  four  days  from  Briar-cliff  here,"  she 
writes. 

We  all  agree  that  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  do  so, 
but  then  there  are  good  reasons  to  prevent  us  this  win 
ter. 

'  But  we  can  go  to  the  city  at  any  rate,  can  we  not, 
Kate  ?"  Minnie  says,  half  inquiringly,  half  decidedly 


I  X     AMERICA.  159 

"  1  see  there  is  a  fine  opera  for  Friday  night,  and  the 
'  Philharmonic  '  on  Saturday,  so  let  us  go  down  this 
week." 

Frank  and  I  are  content  to  remain  perfectly  passive 
in  this  arrangement,  so  it  is  decided  that  day  after  to 
morrow  we  leave  for  town,  where  we  shall  spend  the 
holidays. 

Minnie  has  some  preparatory  needle-work  to  do,  and 
forthwith  sets  about  it  with  borrowed  materials.  She 
intimates,  loo,  that  I  must  go  over  to  the  cottage  in  the 
morning  and  pack  her  bonnet-box  with  some  necessary 
habiliments. 

Kate  draws  her  easel  to  the  light  and  gives  the  fin 
ishing  touches  to  a  sketch  of  Hermit's  Dell,  which  she 
wishes  to  have  framed  in  the  city  ;  whilst  Frank  and  I 
light  our  "  Noriegas,"  and  each  writh  a  paper  in  hand 
"  place"  ourselves  as  our  notions  of  comfort  indicate. 

"Aha  !  so  Nellie  C is  married  at  last,"  exclaims 

Frank  :  and  he  reads  the  notice  from  the  paper  he" 
holds. 

"  To  a  foreigner  too,  Frank  !  Well !  her  fancy  is 
gratified  at  last.  I  am  sure  you  remember  as  well  as 
I  do  that  flitting  summer  of  ours,  when  we  met  her  at 
the  Springs.  I  suppose  you  have  long  ago  told  your 
wife  of  that  famous  flirtation  you  had  with  the  fair 
Nellie  !  lor  like  most  of  us  married  men  you  have 
doubtless  made  confession  of  all  pre-hymeneal  strayings 


160  RURAL     LIFE 

and  preferences.  lias  he  not,  Kate  ?  You  needn't  give 
Minnie  the  wink,  Frank,  for  she  knows  who  I  was  ena 
mored  with  at  the  same  time  that  you  was  so  desperate. 
That  was  a  pleasant  time  nevertheless,  though  we 
wasted  so  much  attention  and  -  — ,  I  was  going  to  f-ay 
something  else  more  valuable  :  but  no  matter  for  that  ! 
if  it  had  not  gone  one  way,  it  would  another. 

"  That  w as  a  golden  season  to  us  then,  Frank,  how 
ever  we  may  think  of  it  now. 

"  What  glorious  gallops  and  drives  over  the  hills  and 
through  the  valleys  of  fair  Berkshire  !  "What  stolen 
glances  and  smiling  recognitions  by  day — what  rovings 
and  whisperings  on  moon-lit  eves  under  the  old  trees — 
what  dreams  by  night ! 

"  All  gone — wasted,  my  friend  !  "We  are  not  sorry 
though,  are  we  ?  we  do  not  miss  them,  do  we  ?  There 
are  fairer  forms,  and  whiter  hands,  and  darker  eyes 
nearer  and  dearer  to  us  now,  are  there  not  ? 

"  We  were  married,  too,  before  either  of  them,  the 
sweet  coquettes,  and  they  know  it.  I  wonder  if  it 
made  them  feel  they  were  growing  pas.se. 

"  Perhaps  the  old  proverb  proved  true  in  their  ca&e  ! 
but  no  !  let  us  be  generous,  Frank  ;  such  creatures  as 
they  were  never  grow  old  :  let  us  hope  they  have  gone 
farther  to  fare  no  worse. 

"  Ah  !  you  shake  your  head — cannot  forgive  her,  hey- ! 
Well  it  was  rather  provoking  to  be  shuffled  off  like  an 


IN     AMERICA.  161 

old  shoe,  and  discarded  for  the  sake  of  that  parvenu 
Count.  But  you  were  well  avenged  at  any  rate, 
Frank ;  what  was  he  after  all,  and  how  every  one 
laughed  at  her,  and  none  pitied  her.  I  wonder  if  she 
has  caught  a  real  Count  now  !" 

"  You  have  made  quite  an  expose,  Harry,"  says 
Frank's  wife  ;  "  he  never  told  me  the  whole  affair,  01 
why  he  was  jilted.  Ah  !  Frank,  you  need  never  tell 
me  you  are  not  conceited  after  this." 

Frank  pretends  to  be  very  stoical,  and,  absorbed  in 
his  paper,  says  nothing :  but  I  fancy  that  his  thoughts 
are  running  back  to  that  gay  summer  and  its  flitting 
memories.  I  know  that  in  his  life-view  the  growing 
years  have  left  a  vista  through  which  a  reach  half 
shady,  half  sunny,  sometimes  opens  to  his  spirit's 
vision.  Like  the  bit  of  landscape  which  the  Claude 
Lorraine  mirror  pictures,  it  is  clothed  in  a  warm  and 
dreamy  haze — the  haze  of  the  Past. 

Unto  what  spirit  is  retrospection  not  pleasant  !  Over 
the  long  review  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine  are  not 
unequally  cast,  "and  every  cloud  hath  a  lining  of 
silver." 

In  the  careless  days  of  boyhood  we  listlessly  read 
from  our  dog-eared  Martial  the  truthful  line 

"  Hoc  est 
Vivere  bis,  vita  posse  priore  frui." 

but  it  is  only  in  after  years  that  we  realize  its  meaning. 
11 


162  RURAL     LIFl 


XXII. 

THE  Christmas  holidays  are  over,  and  we  have  been 
spending  them  in  the  city,  renewing  some  old  acquaint 
ances  and  dissipating-  in  various  ways. 

Again  amidst  the  quiet  comforts  of  home  we  are 
recovering  from  the  effects  of  the  week's  excitement, 
and  enjoying  ourselves  as  we  are  wont  to  do. 

The  weather  still  continues  cold,  but  we  are  so  com 
fortably  domesticated,  day  after  day  passes  by  and  we 
linger,  loth  to  return  to  Hermit's  Dell. 

Teddy  came  over  this  morning,  and  brings  my  accu 
mulated  mail,  with  tidings  that  Bella  is  now  well ;  and 
we  send  back  by  him  an  inclosure  for  the  good  old 
nurse  who  has  attended  her  so  faithfully. 

It  has  long  been  a  matter  of  cogitation  and  consulta 
tion  with  Minnie  and  myself  whether  we  shall  embrace 
Frank's  offer  and  build  near  him.  There  are  many 
matters  to  be  taken  into  consideration,  but  on  most 
accounts  it  seems  desirable,  and  we  have  almost 
decided  to  do  so. 

It  is  a  beautiful  site  that  he  has  selected  for  us  ;  few 


INAMEKICA.  163 

could  he  more  delightful.     At  a  short  distance  from 

o 

liis  own  dwelling,  yet  screened  from  sight  of  it  by  a 
dense  grove  of  old  forest  trees,  it  commands  a  lovely 
and  wide-spread  inland  view  of  hill  and  valley,  with  a 
glimpse  of  far-off  mountains,  and  from  an  elevation  the 
river  may  be  seen  also. 

A  wide  stretch  of  greensward  is  capable  of  being 
made  a  beautiful  lawn,  dotted  as  it  is  naturally  with 
fine  deciduous  and  evergreen  trees.  Near  by  is  the 
glen  with  its  stream  and  fish  pond,  its  sequestered  walks 
and  shadowy  nooks — a  resort  which  the  hand  of  nature 
alone  has  made  lovely  in  the  extreme. 

There  in  the  summer  time  one  may  imagine  himself 
far  removed  from  the  haunts  of  men,  amidst  the  soli 
tudes  of  scarcely  trodden  forests,  for  there  are 

"  Dark  owlet  nooks,  and  caves,  and  battled  rocks, 
And  winding  valleys  roofed  with  pendant  shade." 

We  are  talking  it  all  over  this  evening,  and  Frank's 
wife  volunteers  to  draft  a  plan  for  us  to  build  after — a 
Gothic  cottage,  an  Italian  villa,  or  any  style  we  may 
fancy. 

She  even  brings  her  drawing  materials  and  carelessly 
pencils  a  fanciful  outline  for  Minnie's  consideration  : 
and  Minnie  is  none  the  less  in  the  spirit  of  it,  for  she 
lays  out  the  form  and  dimensions  of  the  dining-room 
and  library,  the  size  of  the  hall,  and  expresses  hei 


1C4  BUBALLIFE 

opinion  of  the  best  exposure  for  the  parlor  with  its  bow 
window  and  French  sashes. 

Then  there  must  be  a  winter  conservatory,  for  she 
has  a  passion  for  flowers,  and  the  porch  must  have 
trellisses  for  her  favorite  wistaria  and  trumpet-creeper. 

I  even  find  myself  becoming  more  interested,  and 
confer  with  Frank  in  the  most  serious  manner  as  to 
the  best  location  for  the  garden,  the  most  effective  dis 
position  of  the  shrubbery  and  flower  borders,  and  the 
easiest  route  for  the  approach. 

Then  there  are  the  out-buildings  and  fruitery,  the 
pasture  lot,  and  sundry  other  matters  to  be  considered. 

How  easy  it  is  to  plan  and  suggest !  how  interested 
we  can  often  become  in  what,  after  all,  is  uncertain  and 
perhaps  impossible  ! 

This  thought  strikes  me,  and  I  look  at  Minnie.  She 
is  more  enthusiastic  than  I  am,  and  sits  dreamily  look 
ing  at  the  fairy  creation  already  made  by  Kate's  agile 
fingers. 

Already  in  her  fancy  the  graceful  cottage  is  reared  on 
yonder  knoll.  The  summers  sun,  shining  through  the 
foliage  of  overhanging  trees,  flecks  its  roof  with  gleams 
and  shadows. 

The  lattices  are  shrouded  with  dense  festoons  of 
odorous  creepers,  amidst  which  her  canary  hangs  and 
gleefully  warbles.  The  breath  of  June  has  blown 
open  the  buds  of  her  prairie  rose,  and  the  "  Bourbons" 


IN     AMERICA.  165 

on  the  lawn  are  out  in  all  their  hrilliancy.  Velvetty 
glades,  their  surface  chequered  with  sunshine  and 
shade,  and  bossed  with  beds  of  flowers,  stretch  away 
amidst  the  tree-openings  forming  long  vistas  of  varied 
beauty. 

Ah  !  my  dreamer,  I  almost  say,  your  eyes  see  fair 
visions,  your  thoughts  wander  in  a  mimic  fairy-land  ! 
will  your  feet  ever  tread  it,  think  you  ? 

"  Well,"  says  Frank,  "  we  will  say  no  more  about  it 
now,  but  leave  it  an  open  question  for  you  to  decide  be 
fore  spring.  I  am  sure  we  have  offered  you  every  in 
ducement  to  be  our  near  neighbors."  And  so  we  leave 
the  subject  for  farther  consideration. 

During  the  evening  Frank's  protege,  the  young 
school-teacher,  joins  our  circle.  He  is  a  frequent  visi 
tor  here,  and  finds  it  pleasant  to  associate  with  those 
whose  tastes  are  congenial  with  his.  Young  as  he  is, 
he  has  seen  considerable  of  the  ups  and  downs  of  life, 
and  experience  has  been  his  teacher  in  much  that  most 
of  us  only  casually  learn. 

He  has  made  Frank  acquainted  with  many  circum 
stances  which  have  conspired  to  place  him  in  his  pre 
sent  position.  He  has  truly  been  reared  in  the  schoo* 
of  adversity,  and  it  is  only  to  be  wondered  that  he  has 
not  long  ago  become  disheartened. 

His  family  were  once  in  affluent  circumstances,  and 
his  father  held  a  high  position  in  one  of  the  New  Eng- 


166  RURAL     LIFE 

land  States  :  but  by  some  misdemeanor  of  persons 
connected  with  him  in  financial  operations,  he  was 
completely  ruined. 

His  reputation  was  blasted  too,  but  as  is  too  often 
the  case,  the  aspersions  cast  upon  him  were  unjust  and 
without  a  shadow  of  reason. 

The  world  makes  few  allowances,  and  public  opin 
ion  is  often  too  hastily  formed  and  biased.  It  was  so 
in  this  case  ;  but  the  amendment  came  too  late  at  last ; 
for  soon  after  his  reverses,  the  injured  man  filled  a 
suicide's  grave. 

A  wife,  daughter,  and  only  son  were  left  to  struggle 
on  as  they  could ;  the  son,  our  present  companion,  the 
youngest  of  the  children. 

His  mother  removed  from  her  native  town,  and  went 
to  a  neighboring  city,  where  she  found  employment  in 
a  seminary  for  young  ladies.  Her  daughter  became 
instated  in  a  private  family  as  children's  governess,  and 
the  son,  prepared  already  to  enter  college,  was  admit 
ted  as  a  charity  student,  an  unenviable  position  gen 
erally.  He  applied  himself  though  to  his  labors,  and 
graduated  well,  blessed  with  a  good  education  and  na 
turally  gifted,  as  we  have  seen,  with  talents  of  a  high 
order. 

Since  then,  his  mother  has  died,  and  he  is  endeavor 
ing  to  the  utmost  to  place  his  sister  in  a  position  above 
dependency.  Whatever  he  could  find  to  do  by  which 


IN     AMERICA.  167 

he  might  gain  an  honest  livelihood,  he  has  not  scorned 
or  neglected, 

He  has  been  an  engineer  in  a  cotton  factory,  a  con 
ductor  on  a  railroad,  and  now  a  village  school  teacher  ; 
but  brighter  days  are  in  store  for  him.     Frank  has  in 
terested   himself  in  his  behalf,  and  a  station  of  trust 
and  honor  will  soon  be  opened  for  hirn  to  fill. 

He  sits  long  with  us  this  evening,  and  recounts  many 
incidents  in  his  past  life.  For  one  so  young,  he  has 
tasted  much  that  is  bitter,  little  that  is  sweet,  and 
early  trials  have  left  their  impress  on  him.  We  can 
only  wonder  that  he  has  braved  and  borne  them  so  well, 
better  than  many  older  and  wriser  than  he  is. 

It  becomes  us  to  encourage  him  in  his  onward  course, 
which  bids  fair  to  be  successful  if  he  does  not  neglect 
his  opportunities. 

It  is  not  likely  that  he  will.  When  we  once  weather 
the  storm,  confidence  is  gained  and  strengthened,  and 
we  almost  long  to  trave  another,  so  the  mastery  may 
be  more  perfect. 

"  Yet  after  all,"  says  Frank,  who  is  in  his  moraliz 
ing  mood,  "  wrhat  is  our  joy  and  glory?  We  live  our 
little  day,  '  robust  ephemera? '  as  the  poet  says  we 
are,  we  die,  others  fill  our  places,  and  we  are  soon  for 
gotten,  unnumbered. 
"  Do  you  remember  what  that  quaint  old  English  poet, 


168  RURAL     LIFE 

Edward  Bolten,  wrote  two  centuries  ago  ?"  and  taking 
from  his  book-shelf  a  rusty  volume,  he  reads  • — 

As  withereth  the  primrose  by  the  river, 

As  fadeth  summer's  sun  from  gliding  fountains, 
As  vanisheth  the  light-blown  bnbble  ever, 

As  melteth  snow  upon  the  mossy  mountains, 
So  melts,  so  vanisheth,  so  fades,  so  withers, 

The  rose,  the  shine,  the  bubble  and  the  snow 
Of  praise,  pomp,  glory,  joy,  which  short  life  gathers. 

Fair  praise,  vain  pomp,  sweet  glory,  little  joy. 
The  withered  primrose  by  the  mourning  river, 

The  faded  summer  sun  from  weeping  fountains, 
The  light-blown  bubble  vanished  forever, 

The  melten  snow  upon  the  naked  mountains 
Are  emblems — that  the  treasures  we  uplay, 

Soon  wither,  vanish,  fade  and  melt  away. 


STRAY    CHAPTERS. 


**  I  hearJ,  as  all  have  heard,  life's  various  story, 
And  in  no  careless  heart  transcribed  the  tale  : 
*  *  *  *  So— did  I  gather  food 

To  feed  my  many  thoughts — a  tameless  multitude.1 

SHELLEY 


RURAL     LIFE  171 


I. 

"  The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  clays  of  our  glory." 

"  Years  steal 

Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigor  from  the  limb, 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  scarkles  near  the  brim." 

THUS  wrote  Byron  !  he  who  had  quaffed  Jife's  cup 
even  to  its  dregs,  and  taken  his  fill  of  every  pleasure 
which  could  sweeten  or  emhitter  his  existence.  How 
comprehensive  are  those  stanzas  of  the  poet — what  a 
depth  of  thoughtful  meaning  lies  hid  beneath  their 
tuneful  sadness. 

In  the  sensitive  and  morbid  spirit,  they  would  stifle 
every  dawning  of  ambition  and  cloud  every  hope,  or 
cause  him  who  is  bearing  the  "  heat  and  burden  of  the 
day,"  yearn  with  heartfelt  longings  to  live  over  his 
long-past  spring-time. 

I  remember  well  the  first  time  those  thoughts  of  the 
poet  woke  dreary  feelings  in  my  own  earnest  spirit. 
I  was  a  youth  then  ;  schoolboy  days  and  sports  were 
over,  but  the  present  was  bright  as  sunset  clouds  with 
anticipations  of  college-life — the  romance  of  prospec 
tive  travel,  arid  the  thousand  airy  schemes  which 
haunt  the  fancy  of  youth. 


172  RURAL     LIFE 

It  was  a  hazy,  dreamy  day  in  early  autumn ;  the 
sun  still  shone  warmly  on  the  hill-sides  and  in  grassy 
dells,  as  if  loth  to  leave  the  wealth  of  fields  and 
orchards  which  had  flourished  and  ripened  under  its 
summer  sway. 

The  corn-fields  were  growing  "  yellow  unto  the 
harvest,"  and  here  and  there  among  the  woods  flashed 
the  brilliant  foliage  of  some  tender  vine  which  untimely 
frost  had  touched.  The  hustle  of  men  and  the  hum 
of  the  work-day  world  were  afar  ;  no  sound  broke  the 
Sabbath  stillness  save  the  whispering  of  the  breeze 
amidst  the  high  tree-tops,  the  tapping  of  the  wood 
pecker  upon  some  hollow  trunk,  or  the  lowing  of  cattle 
on  the  distant  meadows.  It  was  to  no  new  haunt  my 
steps  were  tending ;  near  by  rose  the  ruined  walls  and 
mossy  wheel  of  the  old  mill,  which,  long  disused  and 
deserted,  had  been  my  favorite  resort.  Near  by, 
flowed  the  bright  Neshaminy,  winding  like  a  silvei 
thread  amidst  the  w:oods  and  meadows  towards  the 
distant  Delaware  ;  above  and  around  me  were  the  dim- 
lit  woods,  into  whose  depths  of  shade  the  sun  seldom 
shone. 

It  was  a  spot  I  loved  with  youth's  excess, 
Not  for  itself,  but  for  its  loneliness. 

fired  and  warm,  I  sat  down  to  rest  upon  the  twisted 
root  of  an  old  sycamore,  which  throw  its  white  arms 


INAMEEIOA.  173 

far  across  the  stream ;  my  dog  lay  at  my  feet,  warm 
and  panting  too,  from  his  fruitless  chase  after  a  grey 
squirrel,  which,  nestled  safely  in  the  crotch  of  a  high 
oak,  looked  down  upon  his  baffled  pursuer  in  quiet 
security. 

Taking  from  my  pocket  the  well  worn  book  whose 
pages  had  whiled  away  many  an  else  idle  hour,  I 
opened  it  at  random,  and  these  lines  first  met  my  eye 

"  Ob,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story ; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two  and  twenty, 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty." 

The  stanza  was  deeply  scored  too,  with  an  heavy 
ink  mark ;  it  must  have  been  by  the  hand  of  him  who 
was  the  chosen  friend  of  schoolboy  days. 

The  book  had  been  his  parting  gift,  but  his  grasp, 
once  so  warm  and  true,  is  pawerless  now  ! 

Ah,  Herman  !  thought  I,  who  shall  atone  for  thy 
wild  errors!  Well  I  know  " carpe  diem"  was  your 
motto,  but  did  you  sieze  the  day  for  any  good  purpose  ? 
Yet  the  grave  covers  every  error ;  peace  be  with  thee ; 
out  thy  legacy  may  teach  thy  friend  what  it  never 
taught  thee  ! 

As  I  read  again  and  again  the  half  sad,  half  joyous 
lines  of  the  poet,  I  pondered  ;  then  closing  the  book, 
leaned  over  the  clear  waters  that  were  flowing  gently 


174  RURALLIFE 

by  me,  unrippled  by  a  breeze,  and  in  my  reverie,  mo 
thought  I  was  gazing  into  the  magic  crystal  of  ih« 
Eastern  Fakir,  wherein  I  might  read  my  fate.  I  sa\v 
myself  a  child  again,  sporting  along  the  streamlet's 
bank,  or  amidst  bright  gardens,  plucking  gay  flowers- 
no  w  swinging  on  the  willow's  pendant  boughs — no\\ 
sleeping  on  a  mossy  bank,  dreaming  sweet  dreams. 
Insensibly  I  glided  into  early  youth ;  familiar  forms 
were  round  me,  glad  faces  met  mine.  I  knew  no  care 
or  sorrow  !  the  present  was  all  light  and  joy — the 
future,  bright  with  hope ;  but  one  little  cloud  swept 
over  my  unstained  mirror.  Amidst  its  shadowy  folds 
there  gleamed  for  an  instant  a  pale  and  agonizing 
brow,  and  methought  a  wailing  voice  cried,  "  carpe 
diem — carpe  diem." 

My  reverie  was  ended ;  the  spell  was  broken  ;  yet 
a  "  still  small  voice"  seemed  whispering  in  my  ear, 
"Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy 
might."  And  my  heart  replied,  yes  !  "  Live  while  we 
may,"  is  the  creed  of  the  pleasure-seeker,  the  proverb 
of  the  boy;  yet  it  is  the  language  of  the  worker  and 
philanthropist  too,  but  abused  and  perverted  by  the 
one,  valued  and  improved  by  the  other. 

So  musing  again,  yet  with  a  lightened  heart  and 
clearer  understanding,  I  rose  from  my  shady  seat  and 
retraced  my  way  homeward. 

No  longer,  thought  I,  shall  the  morbid  sentiment  of 


IN     AMERICA.  175 

the  sated  sensualist  cast  a  gloom  over  my  untried 
future.  Let  those  who  will,  seek  pleasure,  and  when 
sated  with  its  nectar  draught,  sigh  that  the  "  days  of 
their  glory  are  over."  as  for  myself,  I  will  strive  for  a 
nobler  destiny,  and  time  shall  solve  whether  the  teach 
ings  of  my  spirit  have  been  right  or  wrong. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  curtains  of  crimson  arid 
gold,  and  lighting  up  my  quiet  study-chamber  with 
hues  bright  as  the  new-born  hopes  which  filled  my 
spirit. 

Taking  from  my  book-shelf  an  unpretending  volume, 
I  read  by  the  roseate  light  these  thoughtful  lines  from 
the  "  Psalm  of  Life." 

"  Not  enjoyment  and  not  sorrow 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way : 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Finds  us  farther  than  to-day. 

"  Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime 
And  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Foot-prints  on  the  sands  of  time. 

"  Let  us  then,  be  up  and  doing 
"With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait." 


176  RURAL     LIFE 


II. 

THE  wild  and  silvery  Beaverkill  winds  its  way 
through  a  wilderness  as  yet  untrodden  save  by  the 
Indian  and  the  hunter.  In  its  clear  depths  the  wily 
trout  finds  a  seldom-disturbed  retreat,  and  to  its  grassy 
brink  the  timid  deer  and  his  tired  hunter  come,  to 
slake  their  thirst  with  its  pure  and  unsullied  waters. 
There  are  haunts  of  rare  loveliness  by  its  wooded  banks 
which  it  would  be  hard  to  match  the  world  over, 
tempting  the  "world's  tired  denizen"  almost  to  be  an 
anchorite,  and  forsaking  the  beaten  thoroughfares  of 
life,  say  with  the  poet : 

"  To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 

To  slowly  trace  the  forests'  shady  scene, 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion,  dwell, 

And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er,  or  rarely  heen ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountains  all  unseen, 

With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold  : 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean : 

This  is  not  solitude — 'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores 
unrolled." 

It  was  early  in  the  autumn  of  a  year  long  past, 


INAMEKICA.  177 

when,  with  a  cherished  friend  at  my  side,  I  sat  upon 
the  brink  of  a  wooded  cliff  which  overhung  the  flash 
ing  waters  of  the  Beaverkill. 

We  had  been  hunting  from  early  dawn,  and  as  the 
shadows  lengthened  on  the  hillsides,  and  the  gloom 
deepened  in  the  valleys,  had  slowrly  loitered  on  our  way 
to  the  logger's  cabin,  which  had  been  our  home  for 
days.  The  sun  was  near  the  horizon  as  we  reached 
the  lofty  ledge  that  formed  the  precipitous  side  of  a 
wide  ravine,  through  wyhose  shady  depths  the  stream 
was  murmuring. 

The  beauty  of  the  view  won  our  tired  feet,  so,  seat 
ing  ourselves  upon  a  mossy  rock,  we  gave  up  the  hour 
to  memories  of  the  past  and  plans  for  the  future  ;  such 
a  communion  as  only  well-tried  friends  can  know. 
We  were  young  in  years,  but  world-wise  withal.  We 
had  roamed  the  old  world  together  and  seen  every 
phase  of  life,  from  the  rude  chalet  of  the  Alpine  herds 
man  by  the  glacier's  side,  to  the  gilded  halls  of  royalty 
with  their  proud  attributes  and  gay  surroundings. 

Alike  in  disposition  and  congenial  in  tastes,  we  had 
made  mankind  our  study  —  lookers-on  rather  than 
comrninglers  in  the  turmoil  and  bustle,  the  strife  and 
competition,  amidst  which  so  many  find  their  highest 
joy.  The  leaves  of  our  journals  on  which  we  had 
faithfully  inscribed  the  chequered  experiences  of  our 

many  sojournings,  seemed  often-times  like  the  pro 
12 


178  RURAL     LIFE 

phetic  tablets  of  the  soothsayer,  by  whose  silent  teach 
ings  we  might  follow  or  avoid  the  paths  which  had  led 
others  either  to  their  making  or  undoing. 

As  we  sat  upon  the  cliff,  the  warm  glow  of  the 
autumnal  sunset,  which  is  nowhere  else  so  beautiful, 
lighted  up  the  forest  that  surrounded  us,  and  shining 
through  the  frost-dyed  verdure  of  the  tenderer  trees, 
clothed  every  object  with  its  roseate  hue.  We  thought 
of  many  an  old  cathedral  chapel,  with  its  stained  win 
dows,  and  the  "  dim  religious  light "  streaming  through 
them  upon  the  altars  and  paintings  and  worshippers. 

As  we  still  sat  and  musingly  talked,  the  twilight 
came,  and  with  it  the  evening  breeze,  gently  at  first, 
then  freshening,  and  ere  long  rising  almost  to  a  gale. 
As  it  soughed  and  wailed  through  the  dense  pine  forest 
which  stretched  around  us,  and  the  twilight  began  to 
deepen,  we  thought  of  the  solemn  Tenebrae  and  the 
wail  of  the  Miserere  in  dim  Roman  chapels.  Who 
that  has  once  heard  that  shrill  cry  of  seeming  agony, 
which  is  almost  supernatural  in  its  wild  notes  of  sor 
row,  has  not  in  after  years  heard  it  again  and  again  in 
fancy  !  Like  the  fearful  scream  which  the  terror- 
stricken  steed  is  said  to  give,  it  is  a  sound  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

Night  was  coming  on  and  leaden-hued  clouds  were 
gathering  in  the  west,  when  we  reached  our  rude  place 
of  shelter ;  but  the  logger's  fireside  was  as  warm  as 


IN     AMERICA.  179 

his  heart,  and  throwing  off  our  hunting  gear,  we  sat 
down  to  our  hearty  supper  and  talked  of  our  day's 
success.  The  goodly  array  of  game  which  hung  from 
the  rafters  of  the  wood-shed,  attested  that  the  busy 
world  wras  still  far  distant ;  yet,  in  a  few  years,  the  old 
forests  will  be  cleared  away,  and  those  now  quiet  soli 
tudes  echo  with  the  sounds  of  every-day  life. 

And  we,  too,  were  never  more  to  tread  that  ground 
together.  That  night  was  our  last  in  the  hunter's 

O  O 

cabin,  though  we  promised  the  old  man  that  we  would 
come  again  the  next  season  and  make  a  longer  stay. 
Little  did  we  dream  that  one  of  us  would  be  where 
no  plans  are  formed,  no  hopes  blighted ;  so  true  is  it 
that  we  must 

"  Trust  no  future,  howe'er  pleasant." 

There  are  not  many  who  can  truly  realize  or  fitly 
appreciate  an  all-abiding  and  enduring  friendship,  and 
still  fewer  are  they,  who  when  they  gain  a  friend,  may 
keep  that  friend  for  ever. 

The  ascetic  and  the  misanthrope  may  scoff  at  friend 
ship  and  call  it  but  a  name,  a  fleeting  fancy  of  the 
hour,  but  it  is  not  so.  There  are  those  whose  hearts 
are  bound  by  ties  which  even  the  grave  cannot  sever — 
ties  which  have  stood  every  test  of  life  unchanging 
and  unchanged. 

The  month  in  which  we  had  promised  to  revisit  the 


180  RURAL     LIFE 

hunting  ground,  again  arrived,  but  niy  friend  could  not 
keep  his  promise  with  the  old  woodsman.  The  com 
panion  of  my  last  hunt,  the  best  friend  of  my  boyhood 
and  youth  was  beneath  the  sod.  Loving  him  with 
almost  a  woman's  love,  it  was  hard  to  give  him  up 
to  the  grasp  of  the  spoiler,  adding  another  to  those 

"  Who,  like  to  autumn  leaves  by  tempests  whirled, 
Are  swept  forever  from  this  bu3y  world." 

With  another  companion  I  have  revisited  the  scenes 
above  described,  and  we  have  sat  upon  that  same 
pine  ridge  and  listened  to  the  same  sighing  wind,  fan 
cying  that  a  familiar  voice  came  to  our  ears  upon  its 
"  wings,"  reminding  us  of  bygone  days. 


IN     AMERICA. 


181 


III. 

BENEATH  a  rough  and  unseemly  exterior,  how  much 
that  is  intrinsically  valuable  or  lovely  may  be  hidden  ! 
The  fire  of  the  diamond  is  clouded  by  baser  goil,  till 
revealed  by  the  hand  and  skill  of  the  polisher ;  the 
water  that  is  purest  and  coolest,  wells  from  the  roughest 
and  hardest  rock. 

As  in  nature,  so,  oftentimes  in  life.  There  is  many 
a  roughly-clad  pilgrim,  journeying  earth's  pathways 
with  us,  who  beneath  his  tattered  garb,  wears  a  brave 
and  noble  heart. 

He  is  an  unstudied  masquer,  yet  the  world,  which 
with  cursory  glance, 

"  Weighs  all  things  in  custom's  falsest  scale," 

will,  too  often,  denounce  him  as  an  outcast,  or  despise 
as  a  misanthrope.  He  may,  and  he  may  not  be, 
deserving  of  that  merciless  ban.  "  A  word  fitly  spo 
ken,"  a  little  heartfelt  sympathy  invested  in  his  behall. 
may  reveal  that  though 

"  The  tree  hath  lost  its  blossom?,  and  the  rind 
Chapped  by  the  axe  looks  rough  and  little  worth, 
The  sup  atill  lusts." 


182  RURAL     LIFE 

There  are" few  men  so  utterly  lost  and  degraded,  as 
to  be  insensible  to  kindness  or  sympathy  ;  there  are 
few  so  rough-hewn,  who  may  not  suffer  some  gentle 
hand  to  round  off  and  polish  here  and  there  an 
unsightly  corner.  With  skilful  pruning  and  careful 
nurture,  the  roadside  bramble  may  adorn  the  parterre  ; 
so  too,  may  the  scraggy  oak  be  taught  to  assume 
almost  the  innate  grace  of  the  maple  and  elm. 

Necessity,  and  may  we  not  say,  destiny  oftentimes 
make  men  belie  their  very  nature. 

With  the  high-souled  of  such,  life  is  a  continuous 
struggle.  "  To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question," 
the  casus  belli  between  the  spirit  and  the  flesh — whose 
arbiter  is  too  often — Death. 

With  one  thus  constituted  and  thus  situated,  I  was 
once  familiar.  A  genius  and  a  scholar  by  nature,  but 
by  the  misfortunes  of  his  family  compelled  to  forego 
those  opportunities  which  in  early  youth  he  had  been 
led  to  expect,  and  which  he  would  have  improved  so 
well,  he  was  thrown  upon  the  world,  dependent  on  his 
own  exertions  ;  fitted  for  some  callings — unfitted  for 
others,  yet  compelled  to  do  something  for  a  liveli 
hood. 

His  birthplace  and  early  home  was  in  a  secluded 
and  mountainous  district  of  New  England;  cf  his 
parentage  I  knew  but  little. 


IN     AMERICA.  183 

"  Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame, 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day, 
But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  fur  aye, 
However  mighty  in  the  olden  time." 

By  a  misdemeanor  of  an  elder  and  only  brother,  was 
his  name  soiled,  his  father's  hard-earned  property  lost, 
and  a  happy  home  vacated. 

The  mother,  heart-broken  and  hopeless,  died  soon 
after  the  disgrace  of  her  son  ;  the  father,  taking  with 
him  Herbert,  my  after  friend,  emigrated  to  the  far- 
west,  where  amid  the  toils  and  dangers  of  a  pioneer's 
life,  he  reared  his  rude  log-cabin,  and  in  the  excitement 
of  a  hunter's  life  strove  to  forget  his  past  troubles. 

Amid  such  scenes,  Herbert  grew  from  youth  to 
manhood  ;  by  such  associations  his  tastes  and  habits 
,n  after  life  were  indelibly  tinctured. 

The  old  man  lived  to  see  the  forests  through  whose 
r.olitudes  his  axe  had  first  resounded,  cleared  away  and 
replaced  by  a  thriving  village  ;  but  ere  long  he  died, 
and  the  link  that  bound  Herbert  there  was  broken. 

Yearning  for  a  life  more  in  unison  with  his  earlier 
tastes,  and  longing  to  ascertain  somewhat  of  his  bro 
ther,  who  had  been  lost  to  him  for  five  long  years,  he 
shouldered  his  rifle  and  knapsack  and  retraced  his 
steps  toward  the  home  of  his  childhood.  It  wras  a  long 
and  weary  way  thither,  but  at  last  the  goal  was  reached, 
though  the  hope  that  led  him  on  was  doomed  to  dis 


184  RUKAL     LIFE 

appointment.  The  erring  and  forsaken  brother  was 
in  a  nameless  grave,  and  of  all  who  once  filled  the 
old  homestead,  Herbert  alone  walked  the  earth. 

It  was  soon  after  this  when  I  first  met  him — 
dispirited,  but  not  despairing :  world-sick,  but  not 
misanthropic.  He  had  been  seeking  some  situation, 
where,  earning  enough  for  a  mere  support,  he  might 
once  more  apply  himself  to  study,  and  become  fitted 
for  a  sphere  of  influence  and  mayhap — renown. 

The  hardships  and  habits  of  a  frontier  life  had  given 
him  a  rough  exterior  ;  for  this  he  had  met  many  rebuffs 
and  in  some  cases,  insult,  from  those  to  whom  he  had 
applied  for  advice  and  aid.  They  little  knew  how 
superior  in  intellect  wTas  the  being  they  despised,  or 
how  at  a  future  day  he  would  tower  abov«  them  all. 
He  was  conscious  of  the  truth,  that 

"He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind, 
Must  look  down  on  the  hale  of  those  below." 

For  a  month  or  two  I  saw  much  of  him,  and  as  ac 
quaintance  ripened  into  intimacy,  I  could  not  fail  to 
discover  that  he  was  possessed  of  talents  brilliant  to  a 
pre-eminent  degree. 

With  the  exception  of  a  few  hours  a  day,  devoted 
to  the  business  of  a  trifling  agency,  which  afforded 
him  a  small  income,  the  most  of  his  time  was  spent 
in  hard,  untiring  study. 


IN     AMERICA.  185 

He  was  a  passionate  lover  of  Nature,  but  chiefly  in 
her  wildest  forms.  He  loved  to  roam  the  deep  woods, 
and  climbing-  the  loftiest  hills,  gaze  upon  the  distant 
river,  for  it  reminded  him  of  his  father's  cabin  by  the 
banks  of  the  Missouri,  and  of  his  deer-hunts  amidst 
the  forests  of  the  West.  His  fondness  for  study  made 
him  a  lover  of  solitude  ;  the  soothing  murmur  of  a 
mountain  stream,  or  the  whisperings  of  the  breeze 
through  the  leafy  woods,  were  far  sweeter  to  him  than 
the  hum  and  bustle  of  the  crowd.  For  this,  the  world 
called  him  misanthropic  and  stoical ;  as  if  all  men  are 
constituted  alike,  and  no  happiness  may  be  found  save 
along  the  beaten  thoroughfares  of  busy  life. 

Ere  long  an  opportunity  for  more  engrossing  em 
ployment  offered.  Tt  was  in  taking  charge  of  a  dis 
trict  school  situated  in  a  newly  settled  county  of  an 
adjoining  State. 

The  enterprise,  though  holding  out  little  inducement 
as  to  pecuniary  advantage,  accorded  well  with  hia 
tastes  and  habits.  The  country  itself  was  new  and 
wild,  its  inhabitants  plain  and  unassuming,  and  the 
desk  might  be  the  stepping-stone  to  3  position  which 
his  ambitious  spirit  had  long  coveted.  So  once  more 
starting  on  his  pilgrimage,  he  trod  his  way  thither, 
with  a  hand  ready  for  any  good  endeavor,  and  a  heart 
nerved  for  any  fate. 

Though  corresponding  at    short   intervals,  arid  the 


136  RURAL     LIFE 

distance  between  us  but  a  short  day's  journey,  I  gave 
nothing  of  my  friend  for  more  than  a  year  :  yet  wish 
ing  to  see  him  again,  and  knowing  it  would  afford  him 
pleasure,  I  packed  up  my  hunting  habiliments  one  fine 
day  in  early  autumn,  and  ere  many  hours  had  elapsed, 
again  felt  the  warm  grasp  of  my  friend's  hand. 

The  rude  house  of  the  raftsman,  in  whose  family  he 
was  living,  stood  in  a  wild  and  lonely  glen,  not  far 
from  the  little  village  which  had  sprung  up  and  flour 
ished  like  a  mushroom  on  the  banks  of  the  Delaware. 
A  few  months  previous,  its  site  had  been  a  part  of  the 
wilderness,  but  armies  of  sturdy  men,  marshalled  by 
all-conquering  Progress,  had  marched  thither,  levelling 
the  hills,  bridging  the  streams,  and  filling  up  the  val 
leys,  to  make  a  pathway  for  the  iron  horse  to  travel, 
whose  deep  pantings  woke  strange  echoes  amidst  the 
woods  and  mountains. 

I  found  my  friend,  unconscious  of  my  coming,  poring 
over  the  pages  of  his  well-worn  Virgil. 

The  small  yet  comfortable  chamber  allotted  him 
was  filled  with  objects  indicative  of  his  tastes  :  it  was 
alike  the  studio  of  a  scholar  and  a  hunter.  Guns  and 
fishing-rods,  pouches  and  baskets,  deer  hides  and  ant 
lers,  skins  of  wild-cats  and  foxes,  stuffed  birds,  books, 
papers,  and  some  crayon  sketches,  all  were  fancifully 
arranged  upon  the  walls,  so  that  hardly  a  chink  in  the 
log  siding  could  be  discerned.  And  there,  by  the  blaz 


IN     AM  ERICA.  181 

ing  hickory  fire,  so  lavishly  piled,  we  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  in  talk  of  bygone  days,  of  present 
troubles,  and  of  future  plans  and  hopes.  Thus  far  he 
had  been  prospered  beyond  his  most  ardent  anticipa 
tions. 

Though  he  had  spent  many  wearisome  hours  and 
days  in  striving  to  teach  pupils  who  were   heedless, 
and  slow  to  learn — though  the  people  amidst  whom  he 
was  thrown  were  mostly  ignorant  and    uncultivated 
still  he  felt  that  he  would  rather  strive  to  "  carve  him 
self  a  name"  there,  than  among  those  who  had  cast 
him  out  in  his  day  of  need,  and  had  never  appreciated 
him  as  he  felt  he  should  be. 

Giving  his  scholars  a  play-day  before  my  departure, 
we  devoted  it  to  hunting  and  rambling  the  woods  and 
hilis  which  surrounded  his  home.  He  was  familiar 
with  them  all,  and  grew  eloquent  sometimes,  as  his 
heart  swelled  with  memories  of  other  days. 

At  noon,  tired  and  satisfied  with  our  sport,  we 
seated  ourselves  upon  the  summit  of  a  knoll,  which 
commanded  a  beautiful  prospect  of  the  wild  valley 
beneath  us,  and  a  wide  expanse  of  forest  on  every 
side.  Here  and  there  a  column  of  blue  smoke  rising 
above  the  high  tree-tops,  told  of  some  woodman's 
lonely  clearing,  along  the  distant  railroad  track  or 
within  reach  of  some  mountain  stream,  whcse  swollen 
waters  might  bear  his  lumber  to  the  river. 


188  R  U  R  A  L     L  I  F  E 

No  sound  came  upon  our  ears  but  the  occasional 
bark  of  the  squirrel,  the  murmur  of  the  stream  far 
down  in  the  ravine,  or  the  trumpet-like  bay  of  our 
hound  on  the  track  of  a  fox  or  deer  along  the  opposite 
hillside. 

Such  sights  and  sounds  awoke,  in  my  companion's 
spirit,  recollections  of  the  time  when  he  and  his  father 
reared  their  cabin  amidst  the  wilds  of  Illinois,  and 
lived  happily  enough  surrounded  with  the  hard-earned 
comforts  of  a  frontier  life. 

His  warmest  sympathies  were  with  those  early  emi 
grants  who,  won  by  the  tales  of  that  wondrous  beauty, 
grandeur,  and  fertility  which  would  greet  their  eyes 
and  bless  their  labors,  went  forth  from  eastern  homes 
to  rear  a  new  and  untried  one  amidst  forests  untrodden 
and  unknown,  save  by  the  "  untutored  Indian."  Their 
only  guide  thither  had  been  the  trail  and  war-path 
which  the  red  man  had  made  and  tramped  from  time 
immemorial. 

What  volumes  more  stirring  than  those  of  romance 
might  be  written,  recounting  the  trials  and  adventures 
of  those  earnest  and  faithful  men  !  what  tales  of  war 
fare  and  savage  torture  ! 

The  whoop  of  the  Indian,  the  howl  of  the  wolf,  and 
the  scream  of  the  panther,  broke  their  slumbers,  and 
caused  the  timid  mother  to  draw  her  babes  still  closer 
to  her  bosom.  With  all  these  and  more,  it  was  theit 


INAMERICA.  189 

lot  to  contend  ;  yet  with  their  labors  and  trials  came 
reward.  The  wilderness  was  made  to  "blossom  as 
the  rose,"  according  to  the  promise  given  them,  and 
their  children  know  but  little  what  their  fathers  suf 
fered. 

u  The  noble,  dauntless  Pioneers, 

Journeying  afar  new  homes  to  rai^e, 
In  the  lone  woods  with  toils  and  tears, 
Meeting  with  faith  the  coming  years, 
Theirs  be  the  highest  meed  of  praise." 

Yet  with  all  his  admiration  of  those  in  whose  trials 
he  had  borne  a  part,  not  the  less  was  his  pity  awakened 
for  the  poor  Indian,  who,  scared  away  from  his  old 
haunts  by  the  noisy  tread  of  the  white  man,  broke  his 
bow  over  the  grave  of  his  fathers,  and  with  wounded 
or  embittered  spirit  made  a  new  trail  towards  the 
unknown  realms  between  him  and  the  setting  sun. 

Their  hunting  grounds  were  broken  up  by  the  axe 
and  the  plough — the  ashes  of  their  council-fires  and  the 
bones  of  their  kindred,  enriched  the  fields  of  their  suc 
cessors.  By  little  and  little,  their  names  would  fade 
from  the  memory  of  man,  till  lost  among  "  the  things 
that  were." 

"  There  were  their  homes,  but  now  no  more, 
Their  day  of  power  and  pride  is  o'er ; 
They  urge  the  chase,  whera  other  skies 
Are  spread,  and  other  hills  arise." 


1(.»0  K  U  K  A  L      L  I  F  K 

With  such  reflections  and  in  such  converse  we 
passed  many  a  pleasant  hour.  It  was  a  joy  to  me  to 
see  one  whom,  a  few  months  before,  I  had  feared 
would  shrink  disheartened  from  the  strife  in  which  he 
must  engage,  thus  manfully  and  cheerfully  bearing 
his  part. 

Well  I  knew  there  were  some,  whose  taunts  were 
still  rankling  in  his  spirit,  whom,  at  some  future  day, 
he  would  compel  to  acknowledge  that  "  mind,  not 
rr.anners,  make  the  man." 

And  so  I  left  him  in  his  rude  school-room,  sur 
rounded  by  his  pupils,  happy  and  contented,  yet  looking 
forward  to  a  loftier  and  more  extended  sphere  about 
to  open  before  him 


INAMXBIGA.  191 


IV. 

"  MAY  you  die  among  your  kindred,"  is  an  aspiration 
which  none  can  fitly  appreciate  but  those  who  have 
stood  by  the  bedside  of  one  dying  in  a  strange  land. 
There  are  not  a  few  of  us  who  have  gathered  those 
that  were  loved  and  loving  unto  the  company  of  that 
"  silent  multitude  "  whose  realm  is  the  tomb.  Some 
are  sleeping  quietly  enough  beneath  the  green  turf  of 
the  village  churchyard,  afar  from  the  noise  of  the  city 
arid  the  busy  tread  of  men :  others  maybe  have  cost 
lier  sepulchres  and  rarer  flowers  above  them,  by  the 
shady  avenues  of  Auburn  and  Greenwood ;  but  we, 
who  survive  them,  have  the  consolation  of  knowing 
that  they  lie  with  their  kindred,  and  that  their  last 
hours  were  not  embittered  with  the  thought  that  they 
were  dying  in  a  strange  land. 

There  is  scarcely  anything  that  so  saddens  the 
heart  of  one  journeying  abroad,  as  to  roam  through 
the  cemeteries  contiguous  to  the  larger  cities  of  the 
continent.  A  few  winters  since,  it  was  my  melancholy 
pleasure  to  visit  some  of  these,  and  in  two  of  the  most 
lovely  of  them,  I  assisted  to  inter  several  of  my  coun 


192  RURAL     LIFE 

try  men,  and  in  one  instance,  a  fair  young  girl,  who 
had  left  home  and  friends  in  quest  of  health,  but  to 
die  amidst  strangers. 

The  cemetery  at  Leghorn  is  beautifully  laid  out, 
and  contains  the  graves  of  some  ten  or  twelve  Ameri 
cans,  and  many  more  of  English  birth.  The  following 
inscription  on  an  unassuming  tomb  therein,  strucK  me 
as  at  once  simple  and  touching  : 

M.  R.  C. 

JE.  19. 

Mourn  not  for  her;  she  died  as  Christians  die, 
There  was  no  earthward  clinging  of  the  heart, 
No  shuddering  terror,  no  reluctant  sigh. 

The  Campo  Santo  of  Naples  is  as  lovely  a  spot  as 
the  world  can  show.  Its  graves  are  ever  green,  and 
flowers  are  perpetually  blooming  and  fading  over  them  ; 
but  on  the  hill  of  Posillipo,  at  the  other  extremity  of 
the  city,  there  \vas  one  solitary  grave  whose  site  was 
far  more  lovely.  It  lay  hidden  from  view,  till  closely 
approached,  in  a  shady  dell  upon  the  sloping  southern 
hillside  :  above  it  are  white  villas,  luxuriant  vineyards, 
and  odorous  orange  groves.  Before  it,  stretches  the. 
blue  expanse  of  the  noble  bay,  girt  well  nigh  round 
with  shores  wrhich  for  beauty  and  variety  cannot  be 
surpassed,  while  far  below,  the  surf  breaks  upon  the 
shore  with  its  deep  and  restless  murmur,  and  still  far 


I  N     A  .U  L  R  1  C  A  .  193 

ther  away  lies  the  city,  whose  din  and  rattle  come 
thither  only  on  the  breeze.  It  is  the  last  resting-place 
of  a  young  German  girl,  who  died  here  years  ago,  and 
few  strangers  visit  Naples,  who  do  not  time  and  again 
stand  by  her  grave-stone,  and  marvel  at  the  loveliness 
amidst  which  it  is  enshrined. 

At  the  Baths  of  Lucca,  which  lie  so  warm  and  shel 
tered  in  the  bosom  of  the  Apennines,  one  may  see  in 
a  morning's  walk,  during  the  winter  months,  invalids 
of  almost  every  clime. 

I  remember  a  pale,  fragile  girl  of  my  own  country, 
who,  with  an  elderly  father,  had  been  roaming  Europe 
for  a  year  or  two,  searching  for  that  fountain,  whose 
fabled  waters  so  few  may  find. 

To  the  stranger,  it  was  evident  enough  that  the 
Spoiler  had  long  ago  set  his  ineffaceable  seal  upon  her 
brow ;  but  with  that  delusive  hope,  which  to  the  last 
fills  the  heart  of  the  consumptive,  and  often  too,  of 
their  friends,  she  was  confident  that  a  few  weeks  more 
would  find  her  at  home  again,  with  every  prospect  of 
a  long  and  happy  life. 

One  morning,  gay  and  flushed,  she  would  mingle 
with  the  crowd  upon  the  shady  promenade — the  next, 
pale  and  languid,  she  would  be  carried  in  her  palanquin 
where  the  sun  was  warmest,  and  the  air  most  soft  and 
tempered. 

I  saw  her  again  in  Naples,  sometimes  on  the  crowded 
IS 


194  KURALLIFS 

Toledo,  or  in  the  gay  Villa-Reale,  but  oftener  in  the 
invalid's  chair  upon  her  chamber  balcony.  I  saw  her 
last,  inhaling  the  balmy  and  odorous  air  of  Sorrento 
on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  bay,  but  I  knew  when  the 
rainy  season  came,  she  would  fly  elsewhere,  yet  for 
her  all  places  were  alike. 

I  was  at  Rome  during  the  Carnival,  but  even  amidst 
its  follies  and  gaieties,  in  which  every  stranger  must 
mingle  more  or  less,  I  could  not  forget  the  pale  face 
of  the  young,  deluded  invalid. 

She  too  had  come  to  Rome,  but  my  first  intimation 
of  it  was  the  mourning-enveloped  note  of  our  Consul, 
summoning  me  and  my  friends  to  her  funeral.  That 
was  a  gloomy  day,  on  which  some  sixty  of  us  followed 
to  the  grave  the  remains  of  one  whom  we  felt  was 
one  of  us,  because  of  our  country. 

The  weather  had  been  cold  and  damp  for  clays, 
colder  than  usual  in  Rome  ;  and  the  occasion  was  one 
which  is  always  saddening  at  any  time,  but  more  so  to 
those  who  are  far  away  from  home  and  kindred.  The 
service,  conducted  in  the  English  chapel,  by  an  English 
chaplain,  was  very  solemn,  and  when  it  was  all  over, 
and  a  few  of  us  stepped  forward  to  press  the  hand  of 
the  heart-stricken  father,  who  was  to  return  home  not 
"  bringing  his  treasure  with  him,"  I  thought  how  touch 
ing  and  how  beautiful  are  the  farewell  words  of  the 
orient — 


IN     AMERICA.  195 

"May  you  die  among  your  kindred !" 

Two  weeks  afterward,  I  saw  another  of  my  coun 
trymen  buried  near  by.  He  was  from  our  own  sunny 
'South,  and  had  left  at  home  a  young  wife  and  child  to 
mourn  him,  in  a  stranger's  grave. 

Most  of  the  tomb-stones  in  the  English  cemetery 
bear  the  names  of  English  persons.  One  is  that  of  a 
young  and  beautiful  girl,  whose  horse  became  unma 
nageable  as  she  was  riding  by  the  Tiber,  when  its 
waters  were  swollen  by  a  freshet.  The  animal 
plunged  into  the  river  with  her,  and  she  was  carried 
swiftly  away  before  a  helping  hand  could  reach 
her. 

There  also  is  the  tomb  of  the  poet  Shelley,  and  near 
by,  that  of  Keats,  who,  stung  almost  to  madness  by 
the  malice  of  a  few  heartless  critics,  desired  these 
words  inscribed  upon  his  tomb-stone. 

"  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water." 

As  I  read  the  inscription,  and  looked  around  me 
upon  the  thickly-strewn  graves  of  his  countrymen, 
these  beautiful  lines  of  his,  rose  in  my  memory — 

"  Stop  and  consider !  life  is  but  a  day : 
A  fragile  dew-drop  on  its  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's  summit ;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 
While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous  steep 


196  R  U  R  A  L     L  I  F  E 

Of  Montmorenci.     Why  so  sad  a  moan  ? 

Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown ; 

The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale, 

The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil — 

A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air, 

A  laughing  schoolboy,  without  grief  or  care." 


IN     AMERICA 


V. 


ABEL  MEAD  was  a  "tiller  of  the  ground"  by  destiny, 
not  by  nature.  His  father  and  his  father's  family 
were  farmers  before  him,  and  the  fair  homestead  which 
he  now  owned,  with  its  well-lying  fields  and  opulent 
woodlands,  had  been  the  scene  of  earnest  and  untiring 
toil  for  two  generations. 

It  was  known  as  Hillside  throughout  the  neighboring 
country,  and  acknowledged  to  be  the  "  crack  farm" 
of  the  county.  There  were  not  a  few  of  the  young 
farmers  in  the  vicinity,  who  envied  the  heir  of  Hill 
side  his  rich  acres,  for  at  all  the  agricultural  shows 
held  year  after  year  in  the  town  near  by,  the  "Meads" 
had  uniformly  taken  the  premium  for  the  largest  corn 
and  potatoes,  and  the  best  seed  wheat.  Yet  it  was 
not  likely  so  to  be.  the  season  in  which  I  sojourned 
thereabout. 

A  year  had  not  passed  since  Abel,  upon  his  father's 
death,  became  sole  possessor  of  the  farm  ;  yet  already 
did  it  give  evidence  that  a  less  thrifty  and  industrious 
hand  superintended  its  labors.  Here  and  there  the 
fences  were  tottering,  and  the  wealth  of  the  barn-yard, 


193  RURAL     LIFE 

once  so  carefully  gathered  and  heaped,  was  wasting 
away  beneath  the  sun  arid  rain. 

The  last  labor  of  the  old  farmer,  previous  to  his 
death,  had  been  in  clearing  up  an  overgrown  swamp, 
which  embraced  the  best  land  on  the  farm.  Death 
came,  and  his  work  was  unfinished  ;  so  it  was  left  for 
Abel  to  accomplish. 

The  middle  of  September  had  come,  bringing  the 
husbandman  to  his  corn-field;  and  already  the  winds 
which  whisper  of  the  Equinox  were  rustling  among 
the  yellow  stalks. 

The  season  had  been  a  propitious  one,  and  the 
heart  of  the  hard-toiling  farmer  was  made  glad.  A 
few  weeks  before,  I  had  seen  the  wheat  crop  gathered, 
and  followed 

"  The  large,  o'er  loaded,  wealthy  looking  wains, 
Quietly  swaggering  home  through  leafy  lanes, 
Leaving  on  all  low  branches  as  they  come 
Straws  for  the  birds,  ears  for  the  harvest  home." 

Again,  beneath  the  warm  October  sun  the  corn  was 
stacked  and  drying  upon  the  fields  of  Hillside,  and  as 
I  threaded  my  way  across  them  towards  the  distant 
swamp,  in  search  of  game,  the  sounds  of  labor  came 
thenceward  to  my  ear. 

Rising  the  hill  that  intercepted  the  view,  I  looked 
down  into  the  hollow.  Tt  was  as  I  had  supposed 


I  y     A  M  E  R  I  C  A  .  199 

Abel  was  striving  to  carry  out  his  father's  plan — to 
finish  what  his  father  had  begun. 

Though  superintending  the  work,  the  young  man's 
hand  was  not  to  the  plough — the  plough  that  his 
father  had  held  arid  guided  many  a  weary  day.  Upon 
the  stump  of  an  old  oak  tree  that  lay  across  my  path, 
an  open  book  was  lying.  Curious  to  know  \vhat 
might  have  been  the  study  of  the  young  farmer,  I  took 
it  up — it  was  a  copy  of  "  Byron," — and  opened  at  the 
tragedy  of  "  Cain."  These  lines,  deeply  scored,  first 
met  my  eye — 

"  I  have  toiled,  and  tilled,  and  sweaten  in  the  sun 
According  to  the  curse ;  must  I  do  more  ? 
For  what  should  I  be  gentle?  for  a  war 
With  all  the  elements  ere  they  will  yield 
The  bread  we  eat?     For  what  must  I  be  grateful? 
For  being  dust,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust, 
Till  I  return  to  dust?" 

These  lines,  then,  shadowed  forth  the  feelings  of 
Abel  Mead  !  these  were  the  thoughts  which  filled  his 
spirit,  breeding  discontent  and  misery  amidst  the 
blessings  of  his  lot — a  lot  that  his  companions  envied, 
and  which  might  better  have  fallen  to  some  of  them 
than  to  him.  I  marvelled  not  that  his  fair  estate  was 
running  to  waste  ;  I  only  wondered  what  freak  had 
driven  him  to  undertake  the  labor  in  which  he  was 
then  engaged. 


200  KUKAL     LIFE 

It  was  but  a  short  time  afterward,  that  I  again 
wandered  by  the  swamp  ;  but  no  work  was  going  on. 
The  clearing  was  put  off  till  the  next  season,  and  the 
half  finished  work  left  to  bear  witness  to  the  supine- 
ness  and  irresolution  of  the  young  farmer.  Thus  it 
was  in  all  that  he  undertook.  Impulsive  and  unde 
cided,  his  plans  were  quickly  formed  and  as  quickly 
abolished,  exemplifying  the  truism  of  the  bard — 

"  The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook, 
Unless  the  deed  go  "with  it." 

Tt  was  a  few  months  afterward  when  I  revisited  the 
vicinity  of  Hillside,  but  Abel  Mead  was  no  longer  its 
possessor.  The  valuable  farm  and  all  its  appurtenan 
ces  had  passed  into  other  hands  ;  it  might  be  of  some 
who  had  looked  upon  it  with  longing  eyes  for  years. 

In  a  lowly  school-house,  not  far  off,  Abel  was 
striving  to  teach  a  wild  troop  of  urchins  the  rudiments 
of  learning.  His  task  was  ill-chosen,  for  he  lacked 
that  decision  so  necessary  to  success  in  his  vocation, 
and  especially  among  the  untamed  youth  under  his 
char.ge. 

Passing  by  the  school-house  one  day  at  noon,  when 
its  noisy  occupants  were  improving  to  the  utmost  their 
hour's  release,  I  stepped  in  to  renew  my  acquaintance 
with  their  teacher.  He  seemed  much  worn  and 
changed,  both  in  appearance  and  manners  ;  I  thought 


IN     AM  ERICA.  201 

for  the  better,  and  wondered  if  his  change  in  circum 
stances  and  position  had  not  been  also  a  school  for  him, 
wherein  he  had  learned  the  lesson  of  contentment. 
But  it  was  not  so  ;  for  in  the  short  intercourse  we  held 
together,  I  saw  that  his  spirit  was  haunted  with  sad 
memories — memories  of  the  happy  hours  which  had 
been  his  in  the  old  homestead  and  amidst  the  fields  of 
Hillside. 

The  hope  that  he  might  at  some  future  day  again  be 
its  possessor,  shed  somewhat  of  gladness  through  the 
gloom  that  shrouded  his  being ;  but  that  hope  was 
never  realized. 

Month  after  month  passed  by  in  fruitless  and  change 
ful  endeavors,  but  Abel  Mead  never  again  entered  the 
home  of  his  childhood.  I  never  saw  him  after  that 
hour  in  the  school-house  ;  for,  when  I  passed  that  way 
a  few  weeks  later,  a  strange  torm  and  face  were  in  the 
place  of  his,  and  he  had  gone  from  the  neighborhood. 

From  those  who  still  felt  an  interest  in  the  unstable 
youth,  I  heard  how  from  his  desk  and  his  pupils,  he 
had  gone  into  the  woods,  along  the  sources  of  a  noble 
river,  and  floated  his  raft  for  a  season  to  a  distant  mar 
ket.  Tiring  of  that,  he  next  became  a  Methodist  ex- 
horter,  and  in  church  and  camp  sought  "to  turn  men 
from  the  error  of  their  ways,"  and  teach  them  that 
which  he  had  not  yet  learned. 

The  last  tidings  of  him  brought  to  Hillside  were 


202  RURAL     LIFE 

vague  and  doubtful :  yet,  corresponding  so  well  with 
his  vacillating  course,  hitherto,  they  were  generally 
believed.  It  was  said  that  he  had  joined  a  tribe  of 
Indians  in  the  far  west,  and  with  the  little  knowledge 
of  physic  and  anatomy  that  he  possessed,  became  their 
great  "  medicine-man." 

Where,  after  that,  were  Abel's  wanderings  or  what 
his  pursuits,  his  friends  never  heard  ;  but  there  were 
some  of  them  who  looked  for  him  day  after  day,  ex 
pecting  that  he  might  come  home  laden  with  gold,  to 
buy  the  still  fertile  acres  of  Hillside.  TheTe  was  one 
too,  among  those  well-tried  friends,  who  had  thought 
of  him  and  loved  him,  through  all  his  chances  and 
changes. 

Her  hope  has  been  long  deferred  and  is  doomed  to 
disappointment,  for  it  is  far  from  probable  that  she  will 
ever  see  again  her  errant  and  misguided  lover 


AMERICA.  203 


VI. 

THL  narvest-time  of  the  year  comes  always  fraught 
to  me  with  many  tender  and  pleasant  recollections. 

At  times  I  am  a  child  again,  sporting  with  my  play 
mates  amidst  the  newly  mown  hay  upon  the  meadows 
of  Willowdale  ;  or  later  in  the  season,  as  older  in  years, 
J  follow  the  reapers  to  the  opulent  wheat-field  to  hear 
the  rustling  of  the  grain  as  it  falls  beneath  their  sweep 
ing  cradles.  A  glorious  sight  it  is  to  me  when  the 
capacious  granary  is  heaped  to  its  very  eaves  with  its 
golden  wealth  ;  for  it  makes  the  heart  of  the  husband 
man  glad,  and  his  toil  in  the  hot  summer  is  forgotten. 

And  sometimes  I  am  by  the  Rhine  again  in  fancy, 
where  is 

"  A  blending  of  all  beauties ;  streams  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  corn-field,  mountain,  vine, 
And  chiefless  castles,  breathing  stern  farewells, 
From  grey  but  leafy  walls,  where  Knin  greenly  dwells ;" 

and  amidst  those  mellowed  beauties  I  listen  to  the 
peasant's  song  as  he  gathers  to  the  wine-press  the 
fruit  of  his  sunny  vineyard.  I  think  of  the  olive 
gatherings  in  sunny  Provence  and  still  sunnier  Tuscany 


204  RURAL     LIFE 

of  the  orange  groves  of  Sorrento  and  Messina,  and  the 
date-harvests  on  the  far-off  plains  of  Ismir. 

Thus  with  the  ripened  grain  and  the  rustling  com 
do  slumbering  memories  of  past  years,  and  the  scenes 
which  gladdened  them,  waken  with  renewed  fresh 
ness.  Yet  the  memories  of  foreign  climes  and  scenes, 
impregnated  as  they  are  with  what  Longfellow  terms 
"the  delicious  perfume,  the  soft  Ausonian  air  of  travel," 
are  not  near  so  sweet  as  those  that  cluster  around  the 
old  farm-house  at  Leeville.  Yet  it  was  not  the  dwell 
ing-place  of  my  ancestors,  but  the  time-worn  inheri 
tance  of  a  friend,  companion  of  many  wanderings. 

One  of  us  had  roamed  the  classic  shores  of  the  old 
world  ;  on  ancient  battle-fields,  in  dim  cathedrals,  and 
gorgeous  palaces,  strayed  and  marvelled.  He  had 
gazed  on  glorious  views  from  high  snow-peaks  and 
cliff-perched  castles  by  the  Rhine  and  Rhone  ;  and 
where  ruined  temples  and  lava-buried  cities  are,  his 
tireless  feet  had  wandered. 

Once  more  at  home,  what  wonder  was  it  that  he 
loved  to  sit  with  his  companion  in  the  old  homestead 
hall,  and  recount  his  travels. 

The  hot  and  dusty  summer  brought  memories  of 
Windermere  and  Lomond  lying  cool  and  placid  amidst 
their  shadowy  hills  ;  and  longing  for  a  breath  of  the 
cool  airs  which  come  from  Alpine  glaciers,  we  envied 
for  a  while  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard.  But  when  the 


IN     AMERICA.  205 

cold  winds  of  winter  swept  around  the  old  hall,  and 
the  well-filled  fire-place  was  all  a-glow,  we  thought 
of  once  blistered  feet  in  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  and  on 
the  burning  sands  of  Egypt. 

It  was  a  noble  old  place  of  which  I  write  : 

The  ancestral  oaks  and  elms  which  shade  it  have 
not  yet  fallen  beneath  the  Vandal  axe  of  the  wood 
cutter.  Through  their  dense  summer  foliage  the  eye 
may  catch  the  gleam  of  the  distant  river,  flowing 
proudly  on  its  course  to  the  distant  sea. 

The  hum  of  the  city  is  far  away ;  but  a  quiet 
village  with  linden-shaded  and  cottage-lined  avenues 
lies  near  by.  No  louder  sounds  come  thence  than  the 
clink  of  the  blacksmith's  hammer,  or  the  glad  voices 
of  children  as  they  break  loose  from  school  restraint 
arid  go  sporting  homewards.  Now  and  then  a  travelling 
circus  company  stop  for  a  day  and  pitch  their  huge 
tent  on  the  village  green,  making  a  little  more  bustle 
and  excitement  than  is  common  ;  but  this  is  a  rare 
occurrence. 

A  thrifty  and  intelligent  class  of  farmers  here  and 
there  dot  the  surrounding  country  with  their  houses 
and  barns.  It  is  a  region  where  vast  grain-fields,  wide 
pastures,  and  fine  cattle  most  abound. 

A  range  of  well  wooded  hills  are  visible  from  Lee- 
ville,  till  lost  in  the  blue  distance,  they  merge  into  the 
spurs  of  the  Alleghanies,  fifty  miles  away. 


206  R  TJ  R  A  L     L  I  F  E 

Not  a  half  day's  ride  to  the  west  lies  Indian  lake, 
a  smooth  sheet  of  water  embosomed  amidst  hills  whose 
sides  are  covered  with  forests  of  pine  and  hemlock. 
There,  six  years  ago,  we  could  drive  any  day,  and 
find  in  the  log  cabin  of  "Uncle  Josh"  a  warm  welcome. 

Then  deer  were  plenty  thereabout,  and  trout  of  the 
very  finest  could  be  had  for  nothing  but  the  sport  of 
taking  them.  Of  old  Uncle  Josh  we  have  spoken 
before  ;  but  the  warm-hearted  hunter  and  woodsman 
sleeps  his  last  sleep.  His  cabin  has  given  place  to  a 
flaunting  tavern  ;  now  and  then  a  stray  deer,  whose 
fellows  are  far  away  amidst  the  Adirondacks,  is  hunted 
to  death  and  murdered  in  the  water.  City  sportsmen 
brag  of  catching  an  occasional  "  two  pounder"  in  the 
lake,  but  the  Indian  lake  of  to-day  is  not  that  of  ten 
years  ago.  Even  its  name  has  been  changed  by  the 
progress  of  the  age  ;  the  hemlocks  and  pines  are  being 
cut  from  the  hills ;  arid  could  good  Uncle  Josh  be 
permitted  to  wake  up  awhile  and  look  around  him, 
like  old  Rip  Van  Winkle,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would 
know  the  site  of  his  humble  cabin. 

I  loved  my  winter  visits  at  Leeville.  My  friend 
spent  most  of  the  season  at  home  ;  and  being  but  a 
day's  journey  from  the  city,  I  was  often  there.  Many 
were  the  glorious  sleighing  frolics  we  enjoyed  together; 
and  I  remember  one  in  particular,  as  being  the  occa 
sion  of  a  difficulty  between  my  friend  Frank  and  a 


IN     AMERICA.  207 

dashing  young  farmer  in  the  vicinity,  not  easily  settled 
Almost  all  villages  and  communities  have  their  chosen 
belles.  In  this  respect,  Leeville  was  not  peculiar. 
Mabel  Lee,  with  a  little  more  cultivation — a  few  arti 
ficial  acquirements  and  accomplishments,  would  have 
been  a  belle  at  Saratoga,  Newport,  anywhere. 

She  was  in  fact  the  reigning  beauty,  not  only  of  the 
village,  but  the  surrounding  country. 

A  year's  study  at  a  city  school  had  added  somewhat 
to  her  natural  charms  both  of  body  and  mind  ;  so  on 
her  return  to  Leeville,  there  was  quite  a  rivalry  among 
the  beaux  of  the  vicinity,  as  to  which  would  be  the 
favorite. 

Through  my  friend,  I  was  invited  to  join  a  sleighing 
party  which  was  appointed  to  gather  on  the  night  of 
the  full  moon. 

It  had  thus  far  been  a  delightful  winter  for  the 
country.  The  snow  had  fallen  heavy  early  in  the 
season  ;  and  occasionally  deepened  by  slighter  falls, 
had  made  the  roads  in  fine  order. 

The  night  of  the  frolic  came,  bright  and  cold  :  and 
the  village  tavern,  which  was  to  be  the  rendezvous  of 
the  company,  presented  its  gayest  appearance.  Sleigh 
loads  of  gay  maidens  with  their  brothers,  suitors,  and 
friends,  came  dashing  to  the  door  Frank's  splendid 
"blacks,"  loaded  with  bells,  and  attached  to  a  richly 
furred  cutter  holding  four  persons,  were  near  at  hand 


208  RURAL     LIFE 

He  had  determined  that  Mabel  Lee  and  a  companion 
of  hers  from  the  city  should  occupy  his  sleigh,  and 
we  four  form  the  load. 

It  was  not  long  before  it  was  so  arranged  ;  for  the 

O  o  ' 

superiority  of  my  friend's  team  above  all  others  therev 
was  temptation  sufficient  for  the  belle  and  her  friend. 

I  had  noticed,  however,  that  a  young-  man  of  the 
vicinity,  who  had  been  somewhat  of  a  suitor  in  days 
gone  by  for  the  heart  and  hand  of  the  beauty  of  Lee- 
ville,  was  watching  us  narrowly.  He  bore  rather  a 
dare-devil,  though  by  no  means  bud  character,  in  the 
staid  village  ;  and  I  soon  discovered  from  some  of  his 
actions,  that  he  was  bent  on  mischief  that  night.  I 
did  not  however  fathom  his  intentions. 

At  last  the  vehicles  were  loaded,  some  fifteen  in 
number,  of  all  shapes,  styles,  and  sizes,  from  the  home 
made  hickory  pole  jumper  to  the  great  omnibus  sled 
built  for  such  occasions. 

Just  previous  to  starting,  I  had  gone  into  the  taverp 
to  light  my  segar,  leaving  Frank  busy  in  arranging  the 
robes  for  the  comfort  of  our  ladies,  when  a  jingling  of 
many  bells  that  I  knew  were  ours,  and  a  loud  shout 
from  my  friend,  brought  me  hastily  to  the  door.  At 
first  I  supposed  his  horses  had  become  restive  and 
started  suddenly  without  a  driver :  but  by  the  bright 
moonlight  I  could  plainly  see  they  were  under  control. 
It  was  only  a  second  before  I  comprehended  all. 


IN     AMERICA.  209 

There  stood  Frank  surprised  and  angered,  looking 
after  his  team  as  they  swept  over  the  frozen  road 
under  the  guidance  of  his  rival.  The  fellow  had  taken 
advantage  of  our  inattention,  and  played  us  a  trick. 
But  there  stood  the  sorrel  mare  and  light  cutter  of  the 
interloper. 

"  Jump  in  for  heaven's  sake,  Hal ;"  said  Harry,  and 
away  we  sped  in  chase,  with  a  dozen  others  after  us 
to  see  the  fun. 

For  a  mile  or  two  we  saw  nothing  of  the  runaways, 
and  the  noise  of  the  bells  behind  us  prevented  our 
hearing  those  ahead. 

Up  hill  and  down,  we  flew  like  the  wind  ;  but  we 
knew  the  mettle  and  the  speed  of  our  blacks,  and  that 
a  stern  chase  would  prove  a  long  one  in  this  instance 
at  least.  It  was  five  miles  from  our  place  of  starling 
before  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  pursued  :  they  were 
rising  a  steep  hillside,  and  we  could  see  the  moon 
beams  glisten  on  the  silver  bells  of  the  horses. 

We  shouted,  and  drove  as  fast  as  we  dared  to,  but 
away  they  went  over  the  hill  and  down  its  descent  with 
unfailing  speed. 

It  was  nearly  ten  miles  to  the  river,  where  we  were 
to  stop  and  take  supper  before  returning.  There,  too, 
the  chase  would  be  ended  ;  unless  they  avoided  us  by 
taking  another  road. 

I  had  seldom  seen  Frank  more  excited  :  for  he  was 
14 


210  K  URAL     LIFE 

naturally  calm  though  decided,  and  not  a  man  to  be 
trifled  with,  even  in  sport  :  but  to  have  his  noble  team 
over-driven  by  a  stranger  and  a  would-be  rival  too, 
was  more  than  he  could  bear. 

At  last  the  river  bank  was  reached.  Our  sleigh 
stood  at  the  door,  and  the  ladies  were  on  the  piazza 
awaiting  us  :  but  their  dare-devil  driver  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  Thinking  perhaps  that  he  had  car 
ried  the  joke  too  far,  he  thought  it  prudent  to  keep 
out  of  sight  for  awhile :  and  it  was  well  he  did. 
Frank's  first  inquiry  was  after  his  horses  :  but  they 
had  been  well-cared-for,  and  the  negro  hostler  was 
as  wet  as  his  charge  from  the  exertion  of  rubbing 
them  down. 

Mabel  and  her  friend  seemed  rather  mortified  at 
being  carried  off  so  unceremoniously  :  though  I  fancied 
they  inwardly  thought  it  was  a  capital  joke.  By  de 
grees,  the  parties  who  had  not  come  over  the  road  as 
fast  as  we  did,  arrived  at  the  river ;  and  ere  long  the 
adventure  of  the  evening  was  forgotten,  save  by  us,  in. 
the  enjoyment  of  a  famous  supper,  an  enlivening  dance, 
and  another  rapid  drive  homeward.  Frank's  wrath 
was  a  little  appeased,  by  receiving  an  apology  the  next 
day  from  the  "  harum-scarum"  youth :  but  he  never 
forgot  the  affront. 

We  were  thinking  of  the  autumn  though ;  yet, 
in  thinking  of  Leeville,  my  thoughts  have  played 


IN     AMERICA.  211 

truant,  and  unconsciously  led  me  into  an  unseasonable 
digression. 

I  remember  one  glorious  autumn,  most  of  wbich 
was  spent  at  my  friend's  farm.  The  frosts  had  fallen 
early  on  the  hillsides  #nd  in  the  low  grounds,  turning 
the  maple  leaves  to  a  golden  yellow,  and  the  tenderer 
forest  vines  that  beautiful  scarlet  and  crimson  which 
art  can  scarcely  equal. 

The  season  had  been  a  most  propitious  one  for  the 
farmer.     The  great  red  barns  were  filled  with  golden 
wheat-sheaves,  bundles  of  rye,  and  the  finest  of  hay 
The  orchard  fruit  had  been  gathered  to  the  mill  or 
cellar,  and  the  corn  was  ready  for  husking. 

It  was  to  be  a  gay  season  in  and  about  Leeville, 
for  Mabel  Lee,  the  belle,  was  to  be  married  ;  and  the 
occasion  was  looked  forward  to  as  about  to  be  one  of 
more  than  ordinary  brilliancy. 

And  who  was  now  the  accepted  suitor  ?     Not  Frank, 
nor  the  hero  of  the  sleighing  frolic.     A  stranger  had 
stepped    in   unawares,    and   quietly   wooed    and  won 
.gentle  Mabel  Lee. 

The  eve  of  the  wedding  arrived.  It  was  to  precede 
the  corn-husking  frolic  of  the  season  on  her  father's 
farm,  and  form  a  part  of  the  occasion.  It  was  a  large 
company  of  young  and  old  that  gathered  beneath  the 
roof  of  Samuel  Lee  on  that  bright  October  eve. 

Never  before  had  there  been  such  a  festive  Catherine: 


212  R  U  tf  A  L     L  IF  E 

in   Leeville ;   never  in   all  the  country   round  had   a 
lovelier  bride  been  given  away. 

And  when  the  ceremony  was  over,  and  the  husking 
commenced  on  the  great  granary  floor,  how  the  hours 
sped  amidst  laugh  and  song,  till  supper  was  prepared 
in  the  wide  hall  of  the  farm-house,  and  duly  appre 
ciated  !  And  when  the  feast  was  over,  and  the  dance 
began,  how  many  wondered  who  would  be  the  biiJe 
at  the  next  corn-husking  ! 

"  That  night  there  was  joy  in  the  gabled  manse, 

"When  home  were  the  harvest  wains ; 
The  young  and  the  beautiful  met  in  the  dance 

To  the  bounding  music's  strains. 
And  the  trusting  love  of  Mabel's  eyes, 

In  their  clear  and  holy  light, 
"Was  the  love — oh  !  spirit  of  Paradise, 

That  could  know  no  change  or  blight." 


IX     AMERICA.  213 


VII. 

THE  places  which  we  were  accustomed  to  frequent 
in  childhood  and  early  youth,  are  seldom,  if  ever,  for 
gotten.  They  are  endeared  to  us  by  associations 
whose  memories  seem  rather  to  freshen  than  fade  as 
we  advance  in  years. 

The  smoothly-shorn  meadows  upon  which  we  played 
— the  newly-mown  hay,  to  us  so  sweet  and  healthful — 
the  shady  woods  through  which  we  roved  during  the 
summer  noontides  in  search  of  wild  flowers  and  berries 
— all  come  before  our  mental  vision  as  though  they 
had  never  faded  or  changed  with  the  lapse  of  years. 

"  The  young !  oli !  what  should  wandering  fancy  bring, 
In  life's  first  spring-time,  but  the  thoughts  of  Spring? 
World  without  winter,  blooming  amaranth  bowers, 
Garlands  of  brightness,  wreath'd  from  changeless  flowers." 

As  well  remembered  as  'twere  but  yesterday  are 
those  joyous  summers  when,  freed  from  the  restraints 
of  the  heated  city,  we  children,  brothers  and  sisters, 
revelled  ir  the  liberty  of  that  happy  change. 

It  was  to  no  gay  watering-place  with  its  round  of 


214  RURAL     LIFE 

dissipation,  its  fashions,  formalities  and  discomforts, 
our  feet  were  guided ;  but  to  a  large  and  quiet  farm 
house  that  lay  amidst  the  hills  which  skirt  the  gently 
flowing  Passaic. 

Childhood  is  observant,  but  not  appreciative,  and 
though  I  remember  well  the  lovely  panorama  that  lay 
around  us,  even  to  every  knoll  and  tree  which  added 
to  its  beauty,  I  was  too  young  then  to  realize  its 
charms. 

There  was  the  shady  school-house  lane,  with  its 
noble  old  elms  and  chestnuts  veiling  out  the  sunshine 
with  their  dense  foliage.  There,  too,  was  the  lowly 
school-house,  with  its  rude  desks  and  whittled  benches, 
its  noisy  troop,  and  their  meek,  unappreciated  teacher. 
Poor  Woodford  !  his  was  a  hard  and  thankless  task; 
yet  there  was  one  among  his  charge  who  gained  his 
love  and  gladdened  many  a  sad  hour  by  her  gentle 
sympathy. 

She  was  the  eldest  of  his  female  scholars,  the  most 
intelligent,  and  consequently  his  greatest  favorite. 
Moreover,  her  father — Ralph  Somers,  had  been  the 
first  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  the  indigent  and  invalid 
student,  when  he  first  came  to  Willow-dale,  seeking 
employment. 

The  farmer's  ample  roof  had  been  his  shelter,  till  he 
almost  learned  to  call  it  his  home.  The  whole  house- 
hold  honored  him  for  his  virtues,  and  therefore  it  is 


IN     AMERICA.  215 

not  strange  that  a  "  feeling  akin  to  love"  for  him 
should  spring  up  in  the  heart  of  Esther  Somers. 

There  was  too  much  of  sympathy  in  their  tastes, 
too  much  congeniality  in  their  natures,  for  anything 
like  indifference. 

The  burden  of  her  satchel  to  and  from  school  was 
his  lightest  labor.  He  sheltered  her  from  the  rain — 
lifted  her  over  fences,  and  in  aught  that  he  could  be, 
was  her  willing  helper. 

A  year  or  two  before,  she  had  been  my  playmate, 
during  our  summer  stay  at  Willow-dale  ;  but  girls  ma 
ture  sooner  than  boys,  and  so,  whilst  I  was  in  my  early 
"  teens,"  she  became  a  budding  woman.  Still  I  was 
allowed  to  be  a  frequent  companion,  and  therefore 
witness  of  that  sympathy,  which  one  day  ripened  into 
love. 

"  We  strayed  together  in  the  wood, 

We  roved  the  meadows  soft  and  green ; 
Or  on  the  rustic  footbridge  stood, 
Over  its  silvery  flood  to  lean." 

The  "  Gulley,"  as  wre  used  to  call  the  shady  ravine 
which  bounded  one  side  of  the  farm,  was  our  favorite 
resort.  There,  when  our  daily  studies  were  over,  or 
on  Saturday  afternoons,  we  youngsters,  under  the  gui 
dance  of  the  teacher  and  his  fair  companion,  wandered 
in  search  of  wild  plums  and  berries,  making  the  glee 


216  RURAL     LIFE 

resound  with  our  laughing  frolics.  There  was  out 
rustic  arbor,  made  of  birch  boughs,  and  almost  imper 
vious  to  sun  and  rain,  with  the  wild  vines  creeping  so 
densely  over  it.  Many  were  the  feasts  of  wild  straw 
berries  and  whortleberries  that  we  enjoyed  there,  served 
up  so  daintily  on  vine-leaf  platters.  So — 

"  We  feasted,  with  no  grace  but  song, 
In  summer  when  the  days  were  long." 

We  loved  the  old-fashioned  garden  too,  with  its  tall 
holly-hocks  and  flaunting  sun-flowers,  its  great,  odor 
ous  beds  of  thyme,  and  sage,  and  marjoram,  which 
were  the  especial  care  of  our  thrifty  housewife,  and 
duly  cut  and  put  away  in  the  dry  garret  for  winter 
use. 

But  better  did  we  love  to  visit  the  huge  coop  of  soft- 
eyed  wild  pigeons  that  stood  in  a  shady  corner,  and 
feed  them  morning  and  evening  with  their  allowance 
of  buckwheat,  that  they  might  afford  us  betimes  a 
dainty  pie. 

The  old  cider-mill  in  the  orchard,  and  the  hay- 
barracks  in  the  meadow,  were  scenes  of  many  a  merry 
game  of  "hide  and  seek"  and  "puss  in  the  corner;" 
they  were  mute  witnesses  too  of  childish  quarrels  and 
childhood's  smiles  and  tears. 

So  were  three  happy  summers  passed,  but  the  fourth 
was  shadowed  bv  the  first  heartfelt  sorrow  that  I  ever 


IN     AMERICA.  217 

knew ;  the  bitterest,  because  the  first.  What  an  in 
comprehensible  mystery  is  death  to  the  glad  spirit  of 
youth  !  how  dense,  yet  fleeting,  is  the  shadow  which 
the  wings  of  the  Dark  Angel  cast  over  life's  sunny 
landscape ! 

Sweet  Esther  Somers  !  She  faded  from  our  sight 
like  a  flower  beneath' the  early  frost.  I  was  too  much 
of  a  boy  then  to  know  or  regard  how  she  sickened  or 
suffered.  I  can  only  remember  how  we  missed  her  in 
our  many  walks  and  sports,  how  we  wondered  why 
"the  schoolmaster"  looked  so  sad  and  laughed  so 
little,  arid  how  we  wished  the  doctor  would  make  her 
well  again  before  the  wild  strawberries  were  ripe. 

We  little  knew,  when  sometimes  we  were  admitted 
to  her  bedside,  and  grew  frightened  at  her  pale,  thin 
face,  that  she  would  never  more  go  down  into  the 
"  Gulley  "  again,  nor  into  the  distant  woods,  nor  even 
into  the  garden  beneath  the  window. 

I  remember  how  she  grew  worse,  and  then  the  bright 
afternoon  on  which  she  died,  when  we  were  one  by 
one  summoned  to  her  chamber  that  we  might  receive 
the  little  tokens  of  affection,  and  the  last  kiss  she 
should  ever  give  us  ;  but  even  then  we  could  not  feel 
that  she  was  going  to  die.  It  was  only  when  we  stood 
by  her  coffin,  and  gazed  upon  her  closed  eyes,  and 
silent  lips,  and  forehead  so  white  and  cold,  that  we 
"v.alized  we  should  have  her  with  us  no  more. 


RURAL     LIFE 

So  in  her  youth  and  loveliness  they  buried  her  in 
the  quiet  village  churchyard,  beneath  an  old  willow 
tree,  whose  drooping  branches  seemed  weeping  over 
her ;  and  there  we  were  wont  to  go,  on  still  Sabbath 
eves,  to  tend  the  flowers  which  loving  hands  had 
planted,  and  talk  of  her  whom  we  all  so  dearly  loved. 
I  did  not  feel  so  much  then,  but  T  know  now  what  a 
void  her  death  had  made,  which  could  never  be  re 
filled. 

Thenceforth,  her  father's  hearth  was  gloomy  and 
desolate ;  thenceforth  did  poor  Woodford,  her  lover, 
wear  a  saddened  brow.  His  hopes  were  soon  overcast, 
and  to  a  nature  like  his  they  were  seemingly  shadowed 
for  ever 

It  is  many  a  long  year  since  my  feel  have  trodden 
the  well-known  haunts  of  my  childhood  in  fair  Willow- 
dale.  1  have  looked  on  many  a  glorious  view  from 
lake,  river,  and  high  mountain-top,  but  never  have  I 
forgotten  those  quiet  spots,  so  dear  with  youthful  and 
tender  associations. 

Doubtless  the  tripping  feet  of  children  are  treading 
the  winding  paths  in  the  shady  "  Gulley,"  and  maybe 
gentle  hands  are  keeping  the  birchen  arbor  from  falling 
to  decay :  and  the  old  cider-mill  must  be  sadly  dilapi 
dated  now,  but  if  it  is  standing  yet,  I  know  that  it 
echoes  oftentimes  with  the  merry  voices  of  childhood 

Beneath  the  old  willow  tree  in  the  churchyard,  there 


IN"     AMERICA.  219 

is  the  same  green  grave,  but  do  loving  children  bend 
over  it  and  weep,  as  we  used  to  ? 

There  are  graves  there,  too,  which  we  have  never 
seen.  Ralph  Somers  is  in  one,  arid  a  playmate  of 
ours  in  another.  Woodfji  i  may  be  there  too,  but  we 
know  not. 


220 


K  U  R  A  L     LIFE 


via 

SUMMER,  with  its  luxuriance  of  flowers  and  verdure, 
had  passed  away,  and  Autumn,  with  its  wealth  of 
grain  and  fruits,  its  frosty  mornings  and  clear  skies, 
had  come  in  its  most  gorgeous  beauty.  The  corn 
fields,  stripped  of  their  rustling  crop,  looked  bare  and 
Bterile,  and  the  meadows,  faded  from  their  rich  green, 
had  put  on  the  more  sombre  garb  of  the  season. 

The  woodlands  alone  had  gained  in  beauty,  and 
already  were  clothed  in  those  matchless  tints  which 
constitute  the  crowning  glory  of  our  northern  autumns. 

But  for  Frank  and  me,  the  season  had  other  charms, 
and  ere  November  came  with  its  sharper  frosts,  we 
were  snugly  domesticated  in  the  rude  but  comfortable 
cabin  at  Otter-creek. 

"  Uncle  Josh,"  as  we  boys  familiarly  called  him, 
was  the  first  settler  in  that  untamed  country.  His 
own  busy  axe  had  made  the  small  clearing  that  afforded 
ground  sufficient  for  the  cultivation  of  corn  and  pota 
toes  and  a  few  garden  plants.  His  own  hands  had 
felled  the  logs  and  reared  the  walls  of  his  lonely 
tenement,  and  with  untiring  zeal,  though  with  hard 


IN     AMERICA.  221 

labor,  he  had  supported  his  small  family  from  day  to 
day  and  year  to  year. 

We,  who  though  young  enough  to  be  his  children, 
had  seen  more  of  the  world,  often  wondered  that  the 
old  man  was  so  well  contented  with  his  lot,  for  his 
declining  years  were  almost  as  devoid  of  the  simplest 
luxuries,  as  were  his  earlier  ones. 

He  was  not  lonely  either,  for  there  was  one  true 
helpmate  ever  at  his  side,  not  less  loving  and  mindful 
of  his  comfort  than  on  the  day  when,  with  little 
worldly  wealth,  they  wedded  and  emigrated  from  the 
banks  of  the  Penobscot,  to  build  up  a  new  home  and 
find  new  friends  amidst  unknown  wilds. 

It  was  always  an  epoch  in  their  work-day  life  when 
we  visited  the  woods,  to  spend  a  week  or  two  of  the 
sporting  season.  Seldom  did  a  newspaper  find  its 
way  thither  except  in  our  portmanteaux,  and  when 
"  Uncle  Josh"  had  read  and  re-read  them,  they  were 
neatly  pasted  on  the  rough  walls  and  ceilings,  in  lieu 
of  better  hangings. 

And  then  there  was  so  much  to  tell  in  reply  to  his 
questions  as  to  what  was  going  on  in  the  Old  world  as 
well  as  the  New,  to  all  of  which  information  he  was 
as  completely  a  novice  as  though  he  was  not  a  part  and 
parcel  of  our  Republic. 

Those  were  cosy  nights  indeed,  when  we  came  in 
tired  and  hungry  from  our  long  tramps  over  hill  and 


L>22  K  U  K  A  L      LIFE 

dale,  through  swamps  and  underbrush  ;  and  after  a 
hearty  supper,  stretched  ourselves  before  the  huge 
fire,  which  was  so  generously  fed,  to  listen  to  the  long 
yarns  which  no  sailor  could  spin  better  than  Uncle 
Josh.  There  we  would  sit  for  hours,  cracking  jokes 
and  hickory-nuts  till  the  good-natured  dame  would 
send  us  laughingly  to  bed. 

An  epicurean  fare  we  lived  on,  too,  such  as  a  haunch 
of  venison  betimes,  varied  by  quail  and  partridge,  and 
now  and  then  a  rabbit-pie,  to  say  nothing  about  corn- 
bread  and  buckwheat  cakes,  with  the  best  of  milk  and 
butter — for  Uncle  Josh  kept  a  cow  which  managed  to 
get  a  good  subsistence  in  her  wide,  forest  range. 

But  there  was  another  inmate  of  the  cabin,  of  whom 
I  should  have  spoken  before,  and  that  was  "little 
Kate,"  for  thus  the  old  people  used  to  call  her,  even 
when  she  had  grown  to  womanhood. 

Kate  was  the  child  of  their  old  age  and  the  chief  bless 
ing  of  their  life.  Though  born  in  almost  a  wilderness, 
and  the  lightest  comforts  of  her  home  hard-earned  and 
few,  no  daughter  of  wealth  and  luxury  was  more 
tenderly  loved  and  nurtured.  But  the  old  man  had 
determined  that  Kate  should  not  grow  up  "to  be  no 
good  to  nobody,"  so  when  she  was  twelve  years  old, 
and  had  acquired  pretty  much  all  she  could  learn  at 
home,  the  trial  of  parting  came. 

It  was  during  our  second  visit  to  Otter-creek  that 


INAMERICA.  223 

this  was  decided  upon.  The  nearest  town  of  import 
ance,  in  which  there  was  a  boarding  school,  was  thirty 
or  forty  miles  distant ;  there  were  no  railroads  through 
the  forest  then,  as  now,  and  the  common  by-way  was 
rough  and  intricate  too,  so  it  was  a  two-days'  journey, 
most  of  the  wav  on  horseback.  It  \vas  thus  Kate  and 

j 

her  father  started  from  home  ;  the  old  man  leading 
the  way,  and  she  on  the  old  grey  nag,  following  after ; 
one,  gay  and  delighted  with  the  prospective  change, 
the  other,  heavy-hearted  enough. 

We  promised  Uncle  Josh  to  remain  till  his  return, 
and  after  he  had  gone,  we  did  all  in  our  power  to 
reconcile  the  tender-hearted  woman  to  the  absence  of 
her  daughter. 

Four  days  elapsed  before  Uncle  Josh  was  again  at 
home.  The  sacrifice  was  made,  and  though  he  felt 
that  he  should  have  to  work  a  little  harder  that  year 
and  perhaps  the  next,  in  order  to  meet  the  extra 
expense  of  Kate's  schooling,  he  would  often  say  cheer 
fully,  "  It  makes  no  odds  ;  larnin,  never  made  nobody 
poorer." 

Two  years  had  now  passed,  and  Kate  was  once  more 
at  home,  there  to  remain  and  cheer  with  her  gentle 
care  the  declining  days  of  her  aged  parents.  She  had 
come  back  to  her  sylvan  home  a  creature  of  grace  and 
beauty,  so  that  it  was  difficult  for  Frank  and  I  to 
realize  it  was  the  same  nut-brown  girl,  who  used  to 


224  R  U  K  A  L     L  1  F  K 

stand  beside  us  and  listen  to  our  simple  stories.  She 
was  more  of  a  woman,  yet  the  Indian-like  grace  of  her 
step  was  the  same,  but  her  brow  hud  grown  fairer. 
and  the  brown  hair  laid  over  it  in  a  smoother  fold. 

The  old  cabin  was  changed  for  the  better  too,  both 
inside  and  without ;  wild-flowers  and  creepers  were 
clambering  up  to  the  eaves,  hiding  from  view  many  an 
unsightly  notch.  The  smoke-browned  newspapers 
which  once  covered  the  walls  of  the  sitting-room,  had 
given  place  to  more  tasty  hangings,  and  a  few  books 
and  engravings  lay  upon  the  table,  betokening  a  more 
refined  taste  than  is  generally  found  in  the  woods. 
Yet  all  these  little  trifles,  which  to  our  friends  were 
luxuries,  had  been  attained  by  an  elegant  and  simple 
labor  of  the  maiden's  own  hands.  It  was  an  arl  she 
had  acquired  at  school — the  making  of  paper  flowers, 
and  with  the  most  exquisite  taste  did  she  copy  the 
forms  and  colors  of  Nature  in  their  loveliest  varieties. 

How  much  may  love  sweeten  even  a  home  in  the 
wilderness :  what  a  sunshiny  gladness  can  woman's 
smile  create  in  the  darkest  hour,  if  her  love  is  valued 
as  it  should  be  !  With  such  a  blessing  was  the  mono 
tonous  life  of  Uncle  Josh  gladdened  and  prolonged. 

Across  the  hills  and  through  the  woods,  a  few  miles 
distant,  there  was  another  home  which  furnished  a  sad 
and  strange  contrast.  We  were  its  inmates  on  one 
stormy  night  when  far  away  from  our  accustomed 


IX     AMERICA.  225 

shelter,  cold   and  belated,  and  no  other  refuge  to  he 
had. 

Were  it  not  that  our  old  host  was  with  us,  we  should 
have  hesitated  to  trust  ourselves  for  the  nisrht  amono- 

O  cl 

such  rude  and  forbidding  people  ;  but  Uncle  Josh  was 
well  known  there,  although  them  was  little  communi 
cation  or  sympathy  between  the  two  families. 

The  snow  had  commenced  falling  early  in  the  after 
noon,  whilst  we  were  deep  in  the  forest,  and  as  evening 
came  on,  the  storm  increased ;  but  under  the  pilotage 
of  our  old  guide,  we  reached  without  difficulty  the 
rude  hut  wherein  we  must  pass  the  night. 

A  gruff  voice  bidding  us  enter,  answered  our  impa 
tient  knock  upon  the  door.  It  was  far  from  an  inviting 
shelter  that  opened  before  us.  Stretched  upon  a  rough 
bench  before  the  dim  fire,  lay  the  man  of  the  house 
apparently  half  intoxicated  ;  two  huge  hounds  which 
growled  at  our  intrusion  occupied  the  stone  hearth ;  a 
rickety  bed  in  one  corner  of  the  room  contained  two 
young  children,  whilst  a  third  was  in  the  arms  of  its 
mother,  who  was  doing  the  double  duty  of  nursing  and 
clearing  the  table  of  a  few  broken  pieces  of  crockery, 
from  which  the  household  had  apparently  just  taken 
their  supper. 

The    atmosphere    of  the    apartment  was  redolent 
with  the  combined  fumes  of  grease,  tobacco-smoke 

and  whiskey,  and  we  were  almost  tempted  to  brave 
15 


KURAL      LlFKv 

the  storm  again  and  seek  shelter  in  the  woods,  rather 
than  inhale  till  morning  such  a  nauseating  and  impure 
air. 

The  poor  woman,  who,  by  her  worn  and  pale  face 
had  already  enlisted  our  sympathies,  though  Uncle 
Josh  had  told  us  something  of  her  history,  seemed 
anxious  to  make  us  comfortable. 

Her  husband  had  risen  from  his  hard  couch  and 
rudely  told  us  to  come  to  the  fire  ;  but  when  he  bade 
the  poor  woman  go  out  and  bring  in  an  arrnful  of 
wood,  we  determined  that  whilst  we  were  in  the  house, 
she  should  not  be  thus  imposed  upon.  The  wretch 
did  not  move  even  when  we  started  to  perform  ll.o 
office  ;  and  when  the  wood  was  brought  and  heaped 
upon  the  fire,  all  the  thanks  we  had  from  him  was  a 
muttered  curse  at  our  interference,  and  a  still  deeper 
one  grumbled  at  his  wife. 

We  were  not  sorry,  when  our  clothes  had  become 
somewhat  dry  and  we  had  put  our  guns  in  order,  to 
retire  to  the  other  apartment  assigned  us  for  the  night, 
and,  wrapping  ourselves  in  some  buffalo  robes,  strive 
to  shut  our  eyes  and  ears  to  all  that  was  unpleasant  in 
sight  and  sound. 

With  the  morning,  came  a  recurrence  cf  brutality 
on  the  part  of  the  man,  and  a  display  of  weakness 
and  long-suffering  on  the  part  of  his  wife. 

It  was  sickening  to  see  one  who  had  evidently  boen 


IN     AMERICA.  227 

born  to  a  better  lot  thus  enslaved  and  maltreated  ;  yet 
so  had  she  lived  for  years,  nursing  his  children,  tending 
his  wants,  bearing  his  abuse.  Could  it  be  other  than 
for  love  ?  Such  was  a  mystery  to  us. 

The  devotedness  and  fortitude  of  woman  have  been 
the  themes  of  poet  and  philosopher  from  the  day  when 
her  gentle  foot  first  pressed  the  flowering  sod  of  Eden. 

There  have  been  not  a  few  whose  names  are  immor 
talized  upon  the  deathless  page  of  history ;  yet  in  our 
own  day  of  outrage  and  wrong,  there  are  spirits  whose 
devotion  is  no  less  deathless  than  was  Gertrude  Van- 
derwarts',  whose  love  is  as  changeless  as  was  that  of 
Arabella  Stuart. 

Thus  in  joy,  and  pain,  and  sorrow, 

Woman  ever  bears  her  part ; 
Sad  to-day  and  glad  to-morrow, 

Weak  of  hand,  but  strong  of  heart. 

It  was  a  joy  again  to  sit  by  the  cheerful  fireside  at 
Otter-creek,  where  the  voice  and  smile  of  a  loving 
child  made  glad  the  heart  of  an  aged  father,  and 
lightened  the  cares  of  a  failing  mother  :  and  as  we 
sadly  spoke  of  the  worn  woman  and  her  cheerless  lot 
in  the  far-off  forest,  till  the  eyes  of  the  maiden  filled 
with  tears,  we  thought  of  the  poet's  words — 

"  A  fearful  gift  upon  thy  heart  is  laid, 
Woman — a  power  to  suffer  and  to  love : 
Therefore  thou  so  canst  pity." 


228  R  U  R  A  L      L  I  F  E 


IX. 


THE  lapse  of  three  years  makes  sad  changes,  not 
only  over  all  the  world,  but  in  the  little  sphere  imme 
diately  around  us. 

The  seasons,  with  their  attributes  of  fruits  and 
flowers,  sunshine  and  snows,  have  gone  their  accus 
tomed  round  :  friends  with  whom  we  were  familiar, 
the  loving  and  the  loved,  have  passed  away  :  some 
like  the  fragile  flowers  of  spring — others  like  old 
forest  trees,  sapless,  and  broken  by  the  weight  of 
years. 

"  A  few  short  years ! 

Less  time  may  well  suffice  for  death  and  fate 
To  work  all  change  on  earth ;  to  break  the  ties 
Which  early  love  had  formed,  and  to  bow  down 
Th'  elastic  spirit,  and  to  blight  each  flower 
Strewn  in  life's  crowded  path." 

Not  less  altered  than  the  more  crowded  haunts  oi 
men — not  more  improved  in  the  eyes  of  some,  is  the 
aspect  of  that  once  sequestered  valley  through  which 
the  Otter-preek  winds  its  silvery  flood. 

What  a  change  is  there  !     The  old  log  cabin  which 


IX     AMERICA.  229 

was  the  handiwork  of  Uncle  Josh,  and  for  so  many 
years  the  homely  shelter  of  his  little  family,  has  fallen 
to  decay.  The  old  man  and  the  thrifty  housewife 
have  been  gathered  to  their  graves  ;  they  sleep  beneath 
the  shade  of  ancient  trees  in  a  newly-made  burial' 
ground,  not  far  from  where  they  lived.  The  old  pine 
forest  which  once  surrounded  them  has  been  burnt 
over  and  cleared  away,  and  the  more  quiet  solitudes 
of  distant  woods  echo  to  the  neigh  of  the  iron  horse, 
as  he  rushes  on  his  path  to  the  farther  west. 

The  deer  have  sought  out  more  noiseless  feeding- 
grounds,  arid  the  smaller  game  has  been  driven  off  by 
the  pursuing  and  reckless  sportsmen  till  it  is  almost 
extinct. 

An  embryo  town  is  growing  and  flourishing  where 
we  once  sported  and  roved,  and  the  "  little  Kate"  of 
those  careless  days,  no  more  gathers  wild  flowers  or 
imitates  their  hues  in  her  gentle  art. 

She  lives  and  loves  beneath  a  more  modern  roof 
than  then,  and  fair  children."  like  olive  plants  round 
about  her  table,"  claim  her  care.  Her  day  of  romance 
is  over  with  ours,  and  amidst  the  calmer  duties  of 
life  with  all  their  varied  accompaniments,  she  finds 
her  pleasure. 

Beside  the  remembrances  which  her  still  laughing 
eyes  recall  to  our  hearts  and  lips,  the  scenes  of  our 
first  acquaintance  have  no  other  charm,  for  the  glare 


230  RURAL     LIFE 

of  paint  and  white-wash  is  far  less  pleasing  than  was 
the  dense  verdure  of  that  old  pine  forest  with  its 
gleams  and  shadows.  The  busy  hum  of  labor  seems 
irrelevant  with  the  holy  quiet  that  should  reign  in  the 
surrounding  forest,  for  far  to  the  north  and  west  there 
stretches  still  an  almost  trackless  wilderness,  awaiting 
the  axe  and  fire  of  the  settler  with  all  their  succeeding 
attendants. 

Earnest  men,  united  in  all  the  great  purposes  of 
life,  are  pushing  forward,  making  nature  subservient 
to  their  endeavors,  and  a  strong  assistant  in  their 
labors.  The  once  free  streams  turn  their  busy  mill- 
wheels  feed  their  canals,  and  float  their  timber  to  the 
river.  The  mineralogist  and  assayer  are  piercing  the 
mountains  to  find  and  prove  their  garnered  wealth, 
whilst  to  the  tourist  and  the  invalid,  an  almost  terra 
incognita  is  laid  open,  whose  lakes,  and  streams,  and 
mountains,  rival  those  of  far-off  Europe  in  beauty. 

Eight  years  have  passed  away  since  the  night  on 
•which  we  first  slept  beneath  the  roof-tree  of  Uncle 
Josh's  cabin  ;  and  already  all  this  change  is  wrought. 

The  simplicity  of  forest-life  was  then  untinctured 
with  any  of  the  "  isms"  which  flourish  so  rankly  in  the 
hot-bed  soil  of  the  present  day. 

The  fancied  power  of  the  magnetizer  was  then 
scarcely  heard  of  or  believed  in  ;  men  and  women 
managed  their  affairs  without  the  aid  of  the  clairvoyant, 


IN     AM  ERICA.  231 

and  were  content  to  await  their  own  entrance  into  the 
spirit-land,  to  see  the  forms  and  hear  the  voices  of 
their  departed  friends. 

I  know  that  sound  and  healthful  sleep  was  to  our 
good  old  host,  a  "  sweet  restorer"  after  the  labors  of 
the  day ;  he  needed  no  other  anodyne  or  incentive. 
His  own  good  sense  and  forecast  taught  and  told  him 
all  he  wished  to  know,  and  in  the  presence  of  ghosts 
and  wraiths  in  our  matter-of-fact  world,  I  am  sure  he 
was  a  mirthful  and  decided  unbeliever. 

But  my  random  diary  cannot  embrace  a  dissertation 
on  fallacies,  or  a  stricture  on  the  so-called  "  humbugs 
of  the  day  ;"  only  we  had  heard  that  the  "  rappings" 
wrere  frequent  in  the  very  neighborhood  where  no  like 
sounds  used  to  break  the  Sabbath  silence  of  the  w-oods. 
save  the  tapping  of  the  woodpecker  or  the  measured 
stroke  of  Uncle  Josh's  busy  axe. 

With  the  changes  which  had  passed  over  and 
marred,  in  our  eyes,  the  fair  scenes  which  had  become 
so  dear  and  familiar,  we  had  changed  also  in  a  measure. 
New  haunts,  where  we  could  still  foster  and  indulge 
our  fondness  for  occasional  retirement  from  the  busier 
scenes  of  life,  must  be  sought  out ;  but  with  them  we 
well  knew  there  could  be  no  second  Uncle  Josh,  with 
his  good  helpmate  so  thoughtful  of  our  comfort;  no 
second  "  little  Kate"  with  her  laughing  eye  and  joyous 
t 'ep  ;  these  were  to  be  with  us  only  in  memory. 


232  RURAL     LIFE 

The  spot  we  next  sought,  when  the  mood  was  upon 
us,  lay  among  the  low,  wooded  hills  whose  sparkling 
rivulets  swell  the  romantic  Winnipee. 

The  waters  of  this  tiny  lake  wash  the  base  of  a 
ransfe  of  hills  which  almost  gird  it  round.  So  sheltered 

o  o 

is  it,  the  winds  scarcely  ruffle  its  glassy  surface,  on 
which  the  shores  are  faithfully  mirrored  in  all  their 
wild  and  varied  beauty. 

4  So  lonely  in  its  slumber  there, 
It  seems  a  spirit's  haunt  of  prayer." 

Joining  the  swamp-lands  of  alder  and  hazel  which 
form  a  portion  of  the  shore,  lay  a  fertile  farm  nearly  a 
mile  square,  embracing  acres  of  woodland  and  meadow 
which  yielded  rich  returns  under  the  husbandry  and 
tillage  of  their  thrifty  owrner.  Beyond,  stretched  an 
undulating  farming  country,  not  densely  settled,  yet 
dotted  here  and  there  with  substantial  farm-houses  and 
their  huge  red  barns,  bespeaking  great  crops  of  hay 
and  grain. 

It  was  mainly  a  German  settlement,  and  its  inhabi 
tants  the  children  of  those  who  came  from  the  fader- 
land  with  their  primitive  notions  and  rude  tools  of  labor. 
The  old  house  near  the  lake,  and  in  which  we  tarried 
for  a  season,  bore  evidence  of  Dutch  handicraft. 

The  thick  stone  walls  and  projecting  gables,  the  low 
ceilings  and  huge  fireplaces,  with  their  tiled  mantels 


IN     AMERICA.  238 

and  hearths,  almost  led  one  to  think  that  the  whole 
building  was  brought  bodily  from  Holland  or  Germany. 
Every  part  of  it  had  the  appearance  of  cleanliness  and 
comfort — such  solid  comfort  as  we  seldom  see  in  these 
days  of  ours. 

Farmer  Fritz  was  an  honest,  plain-spoken  man,  and 
though  Dutch  in  blood,  a  good  and  true  republican, 
and  born  in  the  house  he  lived  in.  His  acres  were  his 
birthright,  and  therefore  he  felt  and  was  independent. 
When  it  suited  him,  he  went  fishing  or  gunning  with 
us  ;  when  it  did  not  suit  him,  he  said  so  and  staid  at 
home. 

The  swamps  which  bounded  his  farm  abounded  with 
woodcock  in  the  season,  furnishing  us  all  the  sport, 
and  our  good  dogs,  Pilot  and  Dash,  all  the  practice  we 
could  wish.  But  we  loved  better,  in  those  hot  July 
days,  to  troll  upon  the  lake  within  the  shadow  of  the 
mountains,  for  our  favorite  fish,  or  trace  some  of  the 
leaping  rivulets  to  their  cool  sources  amidst  the  hills. 

There  were  few  who  were  acquainted  with  those 
spots  then,  or  aware  of  their  pleasant  resources,  but 
the  mode  of  access  to  them  is  easier  now. 

Farmer  Fritz  has  enlarged  his  house,  become  an 
hotel-keeper,  and  is  making  his  fortune. 

The  sw7amps  are  cleared  up  and  drained,  and  the 
little  lake,  once  so  naturally  beautiful,  serves  the 
purpose  of  a  dam  to  a  noisy  paper-mill. 


234  RUKALLIFK 

Change  is  one  of  the  grand  features,  not  only  of  our 
life,  but  of  our  age  ;  the  old  must  give  place  to  the 
new  ;  the  natural  to  the  artificial ;  the  beautiful  to  the 
useful,  and  they  who  would  seek  to  see  the  face  of 
nature  unmarred  by  the  hand  of  man,  must  set  forth 
as  upon  a  pilgrimage,  almost,  to  a  far-off  land. 


I  isr    AMERICA".  235 


X. 

To  those,  whose  feet  have  not  always  trodden  the 
crowded  highways  of  life,  but  oftener  its  less-fre 
quented  by-ways,  how  varied  seems  the  lot  of  man, 
how  countless  the  phases  of  joy  and  sorrow  which  fill 
up  the  measure  of  his  cup  ! 

Such  was  the  tenor  of  my  thoughts,  as  on  a  day  in 
July,  I  sat  on  the  crumbling  threshold  of  that  pic 
turesque  ruin,  known  in  the  vicinity  as  ;'  Ramsay's 
mill."  It  was  a  spot  round  which  sad  and  happy 
associations  alike  clustered  ;  once  the  scene  of  all 
those  domestic  joys  which  make  life  pleasant  and 
desirable ;  but  error,  and  at  last  guilt,  had  crept  in, 
bringing  blight  and  sorrow  with  their  train  of  misery 
and  desolation. 

The  dwelling-house,  which  for  many  years  had 
been  the  shelter  of  the  miller  and  his  family,  was  also 
tenantless  and  going  to  ruin.  The  doors  had  fallen 
from  their  fastenings,  and  the  windows  were  open  to 
the  sun  and  storm,  affording  free  passage  to  the 
swallows,  which  twittered  joyously  around  and  down 
the  chimneys,  and  through  the  deserted  rooms,  unim 
peded  in  their  flight. 


236  RURAL     LIFE 

The  little  garden,  once  so  thriving  and  productive, 
was  overgrown  with  rank  weeds,  save  here  and  there 
a  sun-flower  looking  down  from  its  tall  stalk  upon  the 
miniature  wilderness  ;  yet,  there  was  one  remnant  of 
domestic  life  left — a  lonely  cat,  stealthily  creeping 
along  the  overgrown  paths  and  beds,  in  quest  of  a 
chance  subsistence,  loth  to  leave  the  home  where  she 
may  have  been  fondled  for  years.  But  the  petting 
mistress,  on  whose  lap  Tabby  had  slept  so  cosily  the 
long  winter  evenings  befere  the  warm  fireside,  would 
fondle  her  no  more,  and  the  prattling  child,  whose 
cradle  was  so  soft  and  warm,  had  gone  too. 

The  mill-buildings  were  no  less  dilapidated  :  the 
huge  wheel  had  grown  mossy  and  decayed,  and  the 
flume  that  once  carried  the  water  upon  it,  was  gaping 
with  rents  from  the  frost  of  many  winters.  The  inte 
rior  machinery  had  been  mostly  removed,  to  do  its 
work  elsewhere,  leaving  but  cold  and  silent  walls, 
upon  which  the  cobwebs  hung  heavy  and  undisturbed. 

Yet  there,  for  many  years,  the  trusty  miller  had 
plied  his  trade,  till  his  white  locks  showed  nor  the 
flour-dust  that  gathered  on  them. 

Sons  and  daughters  were  born  and  reared  in  the 
dwelling  near  by,  and  grew  up,  some  to  be  a  blessing 
— others,  the    reverse.      The    boys   were   strong   arid 
hardy  ;   and  one,  loving   and  dutiful,   followed  in   hi 
father's  footsteps,  and  lightened  many  of  his  labors 


IN     AMERICA.  237 

The  other,  and  the  elder,  loving  better  the  noise 
of  the  great  city  than  the  clatter  of  the  mill,  which 
had  become  a  familiar  sound,  left  his  father's  roof 
with  no  parting  word  or  blessing,  and  became  a 
wanderer. 

He  had  been  his  mother's  favorite  ;  but  though  her 
loving  heart  yearned  after  him  and  mourned  him  for 
years,  even  to  the  day  when  her  sorrow  went  down 
into  the  grave  with  her,  his  shadow  never  again  dark 
ened  his  father's  threshold. 

Once  only  were  faint  tidings  brought  the  old  man 
of  his  long-lost  son  ;  but  it  were  better  that  they 
should  have  been  unheard,  adding,  as  they  did,  another 
sorrow  to  those  which  burdened  already  the  stricken 
household. 

Mabel  and  Kate,  the  twin  sisters,  with  the  other 
brother,  were  left,  and  by  their  tender  sympathy  did 
much  towards  gladdening  the  declining  days  of  their 
parents. 

The  girls  were  dissimilar  in  everything  but  age. 
Mabel  was  gentle  and  loving,  fair-haired  and  azure- 
eyed  :  Kate  haughty  and  impulsive,  with  hair  and  eyes 
dark  as  night. 

She  had  more  tact  than  her  gentler  sister,  and  knew 
so  well  how  to  school  herself,  that  of  the  two,  it  was 
difficult  to  decide  which  had  the  greater  charms 


238 

Kate,  however,  was  her  father's  favorite,  yet  it  was 

• 

her  destiny  to  be  "  a  thorn  in  his  side,"  a  reproach  and 
sorrow  to  the  neighborhood. 

Mabel  married,  and  with  the  trustfulness  of  her 
nature,  bade  farewell  to  all  that  was  loved  and  familiar, 
and  with  many  tears  went  to  the  far  west,  there  to 
shed  her  gentle  influence,  and  brighten  a  settler's  home. 

Kate  went  from  home  also,  soon  after  her  sister,  but 
stealthily  and  by  night.  The  flattery  of  an  unprinci 
pled  man  had  won  her  heart,  and  in  an  hour  of  impulse 
she  yielded  to  persuasion,  and  forsook  her  home 
Words  may  not  describe  the  sorrow  that  overwhelmed 
the  old  couple  ;  suffice  it  to  say,  it  broke  llieir  hearts. 

On  a  stormy  winter's  night,  a  year  or  two  after  the 
last  occurrence,  the  erring  and  long-lost  brother  once 
more  stood  in  his  childhood's  home.  lie  was  a  worn 
and  broken  man  now,  for  the  riotings  and  wanderings 
of  years  had  done  their  work  ;  but  where  was  the  once 
happy  circle,  of  which  he  was  the  first  broken  link  ? 
But  one,  his  brother,  was  left  to  tell  him  of  the  past. 
The  wanderer  had  hoped  to  have  his  father's  blessing 
before  he  died,  but  the  grey-haired  man  had  been  in 
his  grave  for  months.  The  prodigal-repentant,  but 
still  bound  by  shackles  he  could  not  break,  and  bowed 
down  by  remorse,  soon  filled  a  drunkard's  grave. 

Of  that  broken  family,  one  only  now  remained  at 


IN     AMERICA.  239 

home,  and  he,  at  last,  gathering  up  all  that  was  avail 
able  of  the  little  property,  rejoined  his  sister  hi  her 
•western  home,  there  to  recount  the  trials  they  had 
borne,  and  strive  once  more  to  be  happy. 

It  is  a  sad  history  !  yet  on  that  old  door-step  I  had 
often  sat  before,  but  never  with  such  feelings  of  sad 
ness  as  then.  To  me,  the  story  was  familiar,  but 
never  had  the  loneliness  of  the  spot  seemed  so  oppres 
sive,  or  its  desolation  more  complete. 

Gladly,  if  possible,  would  I  have  called  back  the 
vanished  years,  the  miller  to  his  labors,  the  fond 
mother  and  her  children  to  the  cheerful  fireside,  with 
all  those  joys  so  rudely  blighted  and  gone  forever. 

It  was  the  last  \\eek  of  October,  in  which  I  again 
trod  the  shady  glens  of  Dark-Hollow  ;  the  trees  were 
putting  on  a  gayer  livery,  and  the  summer  birds  were 
flocking  off  to  the  more  genial  South,  engendering  in, 
the  spirit  a  feeling  alike  of  gladness  and  melan 
choly. 

The  twilight  was  deepening  in  the  woods,  as  I 
neared  the  old  mill,  which  lay  by  my  path  homeward, 
In  a  locust  grove,  upon  the  sloping  hillside  not  far 
distant,  gleamed  the  white  tents  of  a  camp-meeting 
just  convened,  and  as  the  wild  melody  of  their  spirit- 
stirring  hymns  echoed  through  the  hollow,  bringing 
dread  thoughts  of  Death  and  the  Judgment,  I  sat 


240  RURAL     LIFE 

again  in  tnat  crumbling  doorway,  and  listened  to  the 
sounds  which  so  truly  harmonized  with  the  momoriee 
of  the  spot. 

"  They  pealed  along — those  hymns  of  night, 

The  anger  of  the  Lord  their  theme; 
With  echoing  swell  and  cadence  light, 
O'er  mountain  wild  and  gliding  stream." 


INAMKBIOA.  £11 


XL 


ONE  of  our  own  writers  has  said,  "the  value  of  life 
deepens  incalculably  with  the  privilege  of  travel." 
The  remark  is  a  truthful  one,  but  how  few  there  are 
who  fitly  appreciate  the  privilege.  There  are  thou 
sands  of  our  fellow-men  who  spend  their  lives  in 
roaming  the  world ;  some,  in  search  of  change  and 
pleasure ;  others,  of  wealth,  whilst  many  more  go 
shifting  about  like  helmless  barques,  with 

No  guide — no  quest, 
Knowing  no  rest. 

Some  pluck  flowers  at  every  step  ;  others,  fruit,  like 
the  apples  of  the  Dead  Sea,  fair  to  the  sight,  but  filled 
with  dust  and  ashes. 

Some  find  their  highest  joy  in  alleviating  the  woes 
of  others,  whilst  too  many,  like  the  Pharisee  of  old, 
pass  by  on  the  other  side. 

Such  was  my  train  of  thought  as  I  occupied  a  seat 
In  a  crowded  stage-coach  traversing  a  dusty  highway 
of  a  neighboring  State.  As  we  pitched  and  rattled 
along,  I  amused  myself  by  surveying  the  countenances 

of  my  fellow-travellers,  as  is  my  habit  on  such  occa- 
10 


2*8  K  U  B  A  L     LIFE 

sions,  and  thereby  learning  sometimes  more  of  humun 
nature,  than  we  would  with  more  casual  notice.  The 
back  seat  was  occupied  by  a  mother  and  her  daughter, 
who,  I  fancied,  was  on  her  return  to  boarding  school, 
A-acation  having  expired.  The  centre  seat  was  well 
filled  by  the  stout  forms  of  three  well-to-do  farmers, 
dressed  in  home-spun,  who  had  been  attending  an 
agricultural  show  in  one  of  the  county  towns.  They 
were  full  of  converse  on  fine  cattle,  labor-saving 
machines,  and  other  objects  interesting  to  their  class 
and  calling. 

Next  to  me,  on  the  other  seat,  sat  a  quiet  and 
thoughtful  man,  apparently  heeding  little  of  what  was 
going  on  around  him,  and  wrapped  up  in  his  own 
reflections.  The  little  observation  I  was  able  to  take 
of  him  without  being  rude,  impressed  me  with  the  idea 
that  he  was  laboring  under  some  deep  dejection  or, 
perhaps,  sorrow.  Yet  his  dress  and  general  expression 
bespoke  him  to  be  a  man  of  the  world.  How  often 
do  we  meet  such  men  !  seeming  as  if  some  great  and 
untold  sorrow  lay  crushingly  upon  their  hearts ;  a 
sorrow  hoarded  as  it  were,  and  jealously  veiled  from 
prying  eyes.  To  such,  a  kind  word  or  a  sympathizing 
glance  sometimes,  are  blessings  not  craved,  but  when 
freely  offered,  accepted  gratefully.  Like  a  forest  tree, 
touched,  yet  not  riven  by  the  lightning,  but  wanting 
more  than  its  fellows,  the  sun  arid  rain  to  renew  its 


IN     AMERICA.  243 

verdure;  such  an  one  stands"  amidst  his  fellow-men 
more  mindful,  because  more  needful  of,  smiles  and 
tears.  Sincere  and  well-timed  sympathy  is  to  the  worn 
and  fainting  spirit  as  the  cool  dew  of  eve  to  the  fading 
flower. 

One  by  one,  most  of  my  fellow-travellers  had,  almost 
unconsciously  to  me,  been  dropped  at  their  places  of 
destination  along  the  route,  giving  me  an  opportunity 
to  change  my  seat  for  one  more  airy,  and  from  which 
I  could  look  out  on  the  country  through  which  we 
were  passing.  It  was  new  to  me,  and  beautiful  and 
varied.  Now,  on  the  summit  of  a  lofty  hill,  the  eye 
could  command  a  wide  expanse,  dotted  here  and  there 
with  white-farm  houses,  and  diversified  with  woods 
and  fields  clad  with  the  rich  verdure  of  early  summer; 
then,  descending  into  a  valley  carpeted  with  green 
meadows,  we  would  seem  almost  caged  in  from  the 
world  by  the  wooded  hills  rising  on  either  side. 

As  we  neared  the  little  village  of  H ,  which  lies 

nestling  in  the  lap  of  a  fertile  valley,  I  noticed  the 
quiet  stranger  was  affected  by  some  strong  emotion, 
evidently  of  sorrow,  and  that  uncontrollable.  T  never 
before  had  seen  a  strong  man  so  shaken  and  overcome 
by  grief. 

It  was  embarrassing  to  me,  and  would  have  been 
more  so,  had  he  not,  in  a  few  moments,  said:  "Pardon 
mv  weakness,  sir,  but  this  is  my  native  place — -ten 


244  RURAL     LIFE 

years  have  gone  since  I  was  here  last,  and  my  recol 
lections  are  very  sad." 

In  a  few  minutes  we  reached  the  small  tavern  of 
the  village,  and  weary  from  my  long  ride,  I  soon 
domesticated  myselt  amidst  the  snug  and  cleanly 
comforts  of  the  attentive  host. 

I  saw  no  more  of  my  companion  till  we  met  at  our 
evening  meal,  yet  drawn  towards  each  other  by  an 
undefinable  sympathy,  we  sat  long  together  engaged 
in  most  social  conversation. 

Afterwards,  strolling  out  together,  we  found  a 
secluded  spot,  where  he  told  me  much  of  his  history, 
and  of  the  great  sorrow,  that  years  before,  had  blighted 
his  youthful  hopes  and  saddened  his  after  life. 

He  may  be  dead  now,  or  living ;  but  with  a  few 
alterations,  yet  with  no  fancies, and  little  adornment,  I 
have  woven  in  this  chequered  woof  his  sombre  thread. 

"  My  own  early  home ;  though  many  years  have 
passed,  and  sad  changes  been  wrought  since  I  sported 
in  its  halls  and  roamed  its  green  woods,  it  stands 
before  me  now,  as  on  the  day  I  left  it  for  ever — all  bright 
and  gay,  save  my  own  heart.  I  never  knew  a  father's 
love ;  he  died  ore  I  was  old  enough  to  recognize  his 
care,  and  in  the  old  homestead  I  grew  up  under  the 
fostering  love  of  my  clear,  widowed  mother — a  way 
ward,  petted  child. 


IN     AMERICA.  2-45 

"  I  had  my  own  quiet  room,  my  little  cabinet  of 
minerals  and  shells,  my  library  of  treasured  books  ; 
when  tired  of  these,  there  were  my  dog  and  gun,  and 
my  saddle  pony. 

"  What  was  the  world  to  me,  or  I  to  the  world  ;  I 
was  happy  and  contented  with  my  selfish  pleasures  in 
my  little  hermitage. 

'"  1  had  no  playmate — knew  no  game, 
Yet  often  left  my  book  to  run 
And  blow  bright  bubbles  in  the  sun ; 
In  after  life  we  do  the  same.' 

"  So  time  passed  with  little  variation  till  I  was 
eighteen  years  of  age,  and  excepting  the  few  studies 
that  were  imposed  upon  me,  which  occupied  an  hour 
or  two  a  day,  I  sought  but  my  own  enjoyment,  and 
the  happiness  of  my  devoted  mother.  But  in  the 
course  of  another  year,  she  was  taken  from  me,  and  I 
was  thrown  upon  my  own  resources,  with  no  guardian, 
and  scarcely  a  friend  in  the  wide  world. 

"  With  regard  to  pecuniary  matters,  I  was  well 
provided  for,  and  I  resolved  to  retain  the  property  I 
now  owned,  as  hallowed  by  associations  which  others 
could  never  realize  ;  so  with  an  old  and  faithful  house 
keeper,  the  nurse  of  my  infancy,  another  and  another 
year  flew  almost  unheeded  by,  for  I  was  happy  arid 
asked  or  sought  no  change. 

"  But  an  unwritten  leaf  in  my  book  of  life  was  soon 


246  RURAL     LIFE 

to  turn  ;  a  change  I  dreamed  not  of  was  soon  to  be 
my  heart  was  to  expand,  and  instead  of  beating  foi 
itself  alone,  was  to  throb  more  wildly  for  another. 

"  There  was  a  rustic  cottage  not  far  from  my  dwell 
ing,  and  which  you  see  through  the  trees  now,  that 
had  been  a  long  time  unoccupied.  Its  last  tenant  was 
a  poor  and  lonely  widow,  who  had  then  been  dead  a 
year  or  more,  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  and  during 
that  season,  no  living  being  had  entered  the  door, 
except  an  old  dependent  of  the  former  occupant,  who 
now  and  then,  took  possession  for  an  hour,  to  sweep 
away  the  cobwebs,  and  see  that  no  unlawful  intruder 
had  disturbed  the  scanty  furniture  which  still  remained, 
for  the  house  belonged  to  the  heirs  of  an  estate  that 
was  then  in  litigation.  It  was  a  sweet  spot  then,  the 
house  half-hidden  from  view  amidst  weeping  willows 
and  old  shady  elms  ;  and  the  low,  rustic  porch  almost 
crushed  beneath  the  vines  and  creepers,  which  for  two 
summers,  had  known  no  pruning  or  care.  A  little 
streamlet,  with  grassy  banks,  murmured  through  a 
shady  dell  near  by,  fed  the  year  round  by  a  tiny 
cascade  that  came  leaping  down  yonder  hillside 
Such  was  Willowdale. 

"  A  very  home  for  love — an  Eden  spot, 

That  seemed  secluded  from  the  rest  of  earth; 
Where  care  and  sorrow  might  be  e'er  forgot, 

And  thoughts  of  joy  and  love  Lave  cloudless  bi:t!i. 


I  X     A  M  E,R  I  C  A  .  247 

"  But  rumor  whispered  that  the  cottage  was  soon 
to  be  inhabited  again ;  that  a  family  from  the  city  had 
leased  it,  and  the  report  was  ere  long  confirmed  b,y  the 
presence  of  workmen  in  and  about  the  house,  who 
were  soon  busy  in  renovating  the  paint  and  plaster, 
remodelling  and  refurnishing. 

"  A  skilful  gardener  soon  put  the  long-neglected 
grounds  in  perfect  order,  and  before  many  weeks  had 
passed,  the  cottage  was  ready  for  its  new  occupants 
As  it  is  natural  for  youth  to  be  curious  and  imagina 
tive,  you  may  suppose  I  was  full  of  impatience  to 
know  who  were  to  be  my  new  neighbors ;  and  for 
several  days  I  watched  the  stage-coach,  as  it  passed 
by  on  its  way  from  the  city,  with  more  than  usual 
interest.  It  came  at  last,  one  lovely  April  morning, 
loaded  with  trunks  and  boxes,  and  more  than  its 
accustomed  number  of  passengers.  I  saw  within  it 
a  grey-haired  man,  a  middle-aged,  matronly  looking 
woman,  and  more  than  ail.  a  swreet  young  face  looking 
earnestly  from  the  window,  as  it  passed  swiftly  by 
They  stopped  at  the  cottage  ;  the  strangers  had 
arrived. 

"  I  remember  that  I  lay  awake  most  of  the  following 
night,  wondering  what  relation  those  three  persons 
bore  to  each  other.  At  last,  it  was  settled  in  my 
mind,  that  the  old  gentleman  and  the  pale-faced  girl 
were  father  and  daughter,  and  the  matronly  looking 


248  IN     AMERICA. 

person  must  be  their  housekeeper,  for  she  looked  like 
one  ;  the  sequel  proved  my  suppositions  to  be  correct. 

"  Then,  with  youth's  hopefulness,  and  love  for  any 
thing  that  savored  of  a  change  in  my  theretofore  quiet 
life,  I  fancied  how  delightful  it  would  be,  when  I  had 
made  their  acquaintance,  to  act  as  cicerone,  and  show 
them  the  romantic  walks  and  drives  of  our  wild  neigh 
borhood. 

"  A  new  source  of  happiness  had  sprung  up  before 
tie ;  the  void  in  my  heart  seemed  about  to  be  filled, 
and  I  felt  as  though  I  was  to  enter  upon  a  new  state 
of  being.  But  I  will  not  weary  you  with  trifling 
relations  or  details. 

"  Ere  many  weeks  had  passed,  I  was  a  constant 

visitor  at  the  cottage.  Alice  G was  my  divinity — • 

her  father  almost  a  second  one  to  me.  Words  cannot 
describe  the  happiness  I  knew  in  that  delightful 
intercourse. 

"  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  her  beauty  to  you  ; 
enough  that  she  seemed  to  me  more  of  heaven  than 
earth — born  only  to  love  and  be  loved. 

"  '  She  was  my  world ;  filled  up  the  whole  of  being — 
Smiled  in  the  sunshine — walked  the  glorious  earth, 
Sat  in  my  heart — was  the  sweet  life  of  life.' 

"  She  was  young,  gay,  and  happy  ;  but  there  were 
some  who  said  there  was  often  loo  much  color  in  her 


IN     AMERICA.  249 

cheek,  and  that  her  eyes  wore  a  strange  brightness — • 
that  she  was  not  going  to  live  long. 

"  I  laughed  at  their  strange  forebodings  ;  for  to  me 
these  seemed  but  attributes  of  her  matchless  loveli 
ness.  Boy  that  I  was,  love  had  stolen  into  my  heart, 
and  I  felt  that  she  was  necessary  to  my  existence. 

"  And  so  we  lived  on  for  a  year  or  more  ;  we  drove, 
we  rode,  we  walked  together.  The  grove  that  sepa 
rated  our  homes  was  threaded  with  paths  which  our 
straying  feet  had  made.  There  we  had  our  rustic 
scat,  where  we  read  our  books,  and  held  sweet  con 
versation  ;  and  there  too,  was  our  trysting-tree, 

"  '  Where  erst  we  learned  love's  lesson.' 

"  As  weeks  and  months  flew  swiftly  by,  and  I  reached, 
almost  unconsciously,  the  years  of  manhood,  love 
grew  with  my  growth,  and  from  early  blossoming, 
ripened  into  full  maturity.  My  books,  with  which  I 
once  found  perfect  joy,  were  thrown  aside,  save  when 
T  read  them  to  another.  My  horse  and  dog  were  alike 
neglected,  save  when  they  afforded  sport  or  recreation 
for  the  loved  one. 

"  I  was  happy  only  in  her  presence,  and  with  her 
love  ;  but  with  this  joy,  there  swept  across  my  spirit, 
oftentimes,  a  feeling  of  distrust, — a  prestige  that  my 
new-born  hopes  might  soon  be  blighted. 

"  Is   it  not  always  so,  \vhen  we  fancy  that  we  are 


2bO  K  U  R  A  L     LIFE 

happy  ?  Who  among  us  knows  what  the  morrow 
may  bring  forth  ?  The  flower,  whose  bloom  and 
fragrance  gladdens  us  to-day,  may  fade  and  fall  to 
night  beneath  an  untimely  frost.  The  sky,  that  i? 
bright  and  blue  above  us  now,  may,  in  one  short  hour, 
be  swept  by  lowering  clouds.  Nothing  is  sure  but 
death  and  sorrow. 

"  But  to  go  on : — It  was  early  in  summer,  when  the 
roses  and  honey-suckles  that  twined  so  lovingly  around 
the  cottage  porch  were  in  their  richest  blossoming, 
that  I  was  unexpectedly  summoned  to  the  city  upon 
urgent  business.  With  my  manhood,  new  cares  and 
responsibilities  had  also  come,  and  it  was  necessary 
that  I  should  go. 

"  I  was  at  the  cottage  very  early  on  the  morning  of 
my  departure,  to  say  a  few  farewell  words. 

"  The  parting  seemed  to  me  prophetic  of  some  un 
foreseen  woe ;  I  know  not  why  such  doubts  and  fears 
harassed  me — they  were  strange  presentiments,  but 
oh  !  how  sad. 

"  Ten  days  passed  wearily  away  before  my  business 
was  ended,  and  I  felt  comparatively  happy  when  once 
more  on  my  way  homeward.  It  was  nearly  evening 
when  I  saw  again  the  spire  of  the  village  church  rising 
in  the  distance  far  above  the  old  trees  of  the  grave 
yard  ;  and  when  drawing  nearer,  the  pointed  roof  of 
the  cottage  rose  into  view,  my  heart  beat  more  quickly 


IN     AMERICA.  251 

and  my  check  grew  pale  with  the  thought  that  all 
might  not  he  well. 

"  As  the  coach  passed  by,  I  instinctively  looked  up  at 
the  little  window  where  I  had  often  seen  the  face  of 
my  beloved,  radiant  with  smiles  and  beauty.  The 
blinds  were  closed,  and  her  eyes  gleamed  not  through 
them.  I  knew  if  all  was  well,  she  would  have  been 
there  ;  but  now — sickness  or  death  was  within,  and 
my  heart  asked — who  is  the  victim  ? 

"  Once  more  in  my  quiet  chamber,  I  strove  to  nerve 
myself  for  whatever  I  might  be  called  to  undergo ; 
then  summoning  the  old  nurse,  who  was  almost  a 
mother  to  me,  I  learned  all  that  my  heart  had  dreaded. 
Alice  was  sick  and  had  been  in  her  room  for  two  days. 

"  Calmly,  yet  with  a  sad  spirit,  I  once  more  trod  the 
shady  avenue  of  Willow-dale.  Again  I  sat  in  the 
darkened  parlor,  once  so  sunny  and  cheerful,  and 
Awaited  the  summons  to  the  sick-chamber.  An  half 
hour  passed,  and  I  was  once  more  by  the  side  of  her  I 
loved.  But  what  a  change  a  few  short  days  had 
wrought ;  what  a  sad  reunion  was  ours  !  She  was 
pillowed  on  her  father's  breast,  and  his  careworn  brow 
told  of  the  anxiety  that  filled  his  heart.  Her  com  - 
plaint  was  told  me  in  a  few  words — she  had  been  spit 
ting  blood.  Though  thin  and  worn,  she  appeared  to 
me  lovelier  than  ever,  with  a  bloom  upon  her  cheek, 
that  to  my  unpractised  eye,  spoke  of  returning  health 


252  RURAL     LIFE 

but  when  I  took  her  hand,  and  felt  the  fever  that  was 
burning  in  her  veins,  hope  died  within  me,  and  I  feared 
the  worst. 

"  Another  week  went  by,  and  except  at  short  inter 
vals,  I  kept  a  sleepless  vigil  by  her  side. 

"  Those  were  hours  of  sweet  communion,  the  memory 
of  which  is  as  fresh  and  holy  as  though  they  were  of 
yesterday ;  but  as  she  daily  grew  weaker  and  thinner, 
the  conviction  forced  itself  upon  her  tnat  there  was  no 
hope  of  life.  Yet,  there  was  no  repining  at  the  thought 
of  her  blighted  youth,  no  shudder  on  the  verge  of  the 
dark  valky  ;  all  was  joy  and  peace. 

"  So  she  faded,  day  by  day  through  the  long  winter. 
March  came  with  its  blustering  winds  and  passed 
away,  but  the  April  showers  fell  like  tears  upon  her 
new-made  grave.  She  died  at  the  close  of  a  bright, 
warm  day,  when  Nature  was  putting  on  her  garments 
of  joy,  and  smiling  as  if  in  mockery  of  our  desolated 
hearts.  She  lies  in  yonder  churchyard,  and  there  1 
have  spent  my  afternoon.  Years  have  passed  since 
she  was  laid  there,  and  I  have  been  a  wanderer  in 
many  lands  :  but  from  the  halls  of  mirth  arid  splendor 
— from  the  smiles  of  beauty  and  the  fascinations  of 
the  world,  I  have  turned  away,  to  think  of  that  green 
grave,  and  of  that  gentle  being,  whose  spirit  may  now 
be  hovering  around  me  on  viewless  wings. 

"  To-morrow  I  go  away  again  upon  my  wanderings  ; 


IN     AMERICA.  253 

you  may  never  see  me  more,  but  I  shall  remember 

your  kindness  whilst  I  live." 

********** 

Such  was  the  substance  of  the  stranger's  tale,  and 
with  few  additions,  this  little  sketch  is  a  faithful  tran 
script  of  his  history.  That  night,  our  paths  through 
life  divided,  and  they  have  never  met  again.  I  know 
not  where  his  feet  may  be  roving :  maybe  he  has  long 
ago  returned  to  his  native  village  to  die  and  be  buried 
in  the  old  churchyard. 

I  often  think  of  him  and  remember  the  poet's 
saying  : 

"  What  is  our  bliss  that  changeth  with  the  rnoon, 
And  day  of  life  that  darkens  ere  'tis  noon?" 


254  RURAL     LIFE 


XII. 

ONCE  more  in  the  forest,  after  a  lapse  of  two  years, 
yet  it  is  a  different  section  from  that  with  which  I  have 
been  familiar.  The  haunts  of  the  deer  we  are  disturb 
ing  now  are  far  removed  from  the  Beaverkill,  and  the 
once  hospitable  cabin  of  "Uncle  Josh."  As  some 
what  of  his  history,  and  our  acquaintance  with  the 
old  hunter,  has  been  chronicled  on  former  pages,  we 
will  not  recur  to  them  now.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that 
where  his  lonely  clearing  broke  the  gloom  of  the  forest, 
a  village  with  more  pretending,  but  less  verdure- 
shaded  dwellings  than  his,  is  now  growing  and  thriving. 

The  waters  of  the  Beaverkill,  once  so  swift  and 
silvery,  have  been  dammed  up  for  utilitarian  purposes, 
and  are  discolored  by  the  various  uses  they  are  made 
to  serve.  Uncle  Josh,  that  honest  old  man  and  true- 
hearted  hunter,  has  passed  away,  with  most  of  that 
race  which  followed  so  closely  the  footsteps  of  the 
receding  red  man. 

One  of  the  friends  who  so  humorously  chronicled 
the  sayings  and  doings  of  those  our  pristine  hunting 
days  is  gone  too,  and  Pilot,  his  faithful  hound,  BO 


IN     AMERICA.  255 

swift  of  foot,  so  keen  of  scent,  has  long  ago  followed 
his  last  chase. 

The  features  of  the  country  which  surrounds  us 
now,  are  not  unlike  those  which  the  waters  of  th<? 
Shohokin  and  the  Beaverkill  mirror  on  their  way  to 
the  infant  Delaware ;  yet  here,  the  mountains  are 
grander,  and  the  wilderness  is  more  unbroken.  Count 
less  lakes,  of  varied  size  and  form,  lie  like  gems  amidst 
the  densely  wooded  hills  and  surrounding  forests. 

Our  rude  cabin  is  on  the  shore  of  one  of  them, 
overshadowed  by  swaying  spruces  and  sighing  pines, 
The  "  Silver  Mountain"  and  "  Owl's  Head"  cast  their 
long  shadows  athwart  its  calm  bosom,  whilst  behind 
them,  old  "  Bluebeard,"  his  top  white  with  early 
snows,  towers  grandly  above  its  surrounding  hills. 

Not  many  miles  to  the  north  is  the  noble  St.  Law 
rence  and  the  Canadian  boundary.  To  the  south  are 
the  Adirondack  mountains  with  their  lofty  peaks  of 
Tahawus  and  Seward,  looking  down  upon  the  Saranac 
lakes,  which  stretch  like  a  silvery  chain  through  miles 
and  miles  of  wilderness. 

To  those  who  never  traversed  this  part  of  the  State, 
it  is  difficult  to  imagine  wThat  wild  wastes  cover  the 
greater  parts  of  the  Counties  of  Hamilton,  Clinton, 
Essex,  Franklin  and  St.  Lawrence. 

And  KO  they  will  remain  for  years  to  come,  whilst 
the  rich  and  unencumbered  prairie  lands  of  the  west 


256  RURAL     LIFE 

tempt   the    settler    with   their   more    fertile    soil    ami 
salubrious  climate. 

From  the  rude  cabin,  in  which  I  am  striving  to  indite 
these  records,  to  the  nearest  post-town,  it  is  twelve 
miles,  half  of  which  we  came  afoot  through  the  forest. 

Two  active,  muscular  guides  carried  our  provisions 
in  sacks  slung  over  their  shoulders,  whilst  we  trudged 
after  them  with  no  heavier  burden  than  our  rifles. 
•Our  clothes  are  stout  and  warm,  and  our  feet  well 
shod,  for  the  path,  scarcely  discernible,  lies  over 
swamps,  nrid  streams,  and  fallen  timber,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  snow,  which  covers  the  ground,  in  places,  to 
'the  depth  of  several  inches. 

It  was  nearly  night  of  our  second  day  from  home, 
when  we  reached  the  shore  of  Indian  lake,  our  desti 
nation.  Hemmed  in  by  densely  wooded  hills,  and 
veiled  from  sight  by  the  spruces  and  hemlocks  which 
fringe  its  margin,  we  were  upon  the  beach  before  we- 
were  aware  of  its  proximity. 

Nothing  impressed  me  so  much  as  the  utter  loneli 
ness  and  seclusion  of  the  place.  The  shadows  of  the 
mountains  lying  on  the  water,  the  old  forest  with  its 
immense  trunks,  some  dead  and  bearded  with  swaying 
moss,  and  above  all,  the  mournful  cry  of  the  loon, 
echoing  from  the  opposite  shore,  increased  the  awe 
which  those  who  love  such  scenes  must  always  feel 
and  especially  at  such  an  hour. 


T  X     AMERICA.  257 

As  I  looked  upon  the  forest  surrounding  us,  dark 
and  dim,  these  stanzas  from  Evangeline  came  into  my 
memory — 

"  This  is  the  forest  primeval ;    the  murmuring  pines  and  the 

hemlocks, 
Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct  in  the 

twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  old,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic, 
Stand  like  harpers  hoar  with  beards  that  rest  on  their  bosoms." 

A  ruinous  shanty  of  boughs  open  to  the  south,  with 
the  smouldering  ashes  of  a  fire  before  it,  offered  us  a 
shelter ;  but  a  storm  seemed  brewing,  and  our  guides 
advised  our  taking  the  skiff  which  was  moored  here 
and  going  a  mile  down  the  lake  to  a  settler's  more 
comfortable  cabin.  This  we  agreed  to,  and  having 
packed  in  our  luggage  we  put  out  from  shore,  one  of 
the  men  having  concluded  to  build  a  fire  and  remain 
in  the  shanty  till  we  rejoined  him  in  the  morning. 

Our  oarsman  had  not  rowed  us  far  before  he  per 
ceived  in  the  distant  water,  what  appeared,  by  the  dim 
light  of  evening,  to  be  the  wake  of  a  swimming  deer. 
Our  rifles  were  loaded,  and  we  started  in  pursuit ;  but 
after  rowing  half-way  across  the  lake,  much  to  our 
disappointment  we  found  it  was  made  by  a  flock  of 
ducks,  which  dived  away  from  us  on  a  nearer  approach. 

Our  course  was  then  laid  for  the  clearing,  which 
17 


253  RURAL     LIFE 

was  a  mile  and  a  half  distant,  but  we  soon  found  our 
boat  to  be  leaking  so  badly,  it  wras  necessary  to  put  to 
shore  and  turn  out  the  water. 

We  found  an  old  pan  at  the  shanty,  where  Tom  had 
made  himself  so  comfortable,  and  were  almost  per 
suaded  to  remain  and  keep  him  company ;  but  we 
again  started,  though  it  required  constant  bailing  to 
keep  our  craft  afloat.  We  took  turns  at  the  service 
till  we  reached  the  clearing,  cold,  wet,  and  hungry, 
after  a  day's  hard  travel. 

It  was  now  dark,  and  the  approach  to  the  cabin  lay 
over  burnt  and  fallen  timber,  heaped  up  in  every 
imaginable  form,  the  debris  of  what  is  called  in  forest 
parlance,  a  "  slash." 

With  climbing,  scrambling,  and  tumbling  for  nearly 
half  an  hour,  we  at  last  reached  the  house  and  found 
not  ordy  a  warm  welcome  but  a  warm  supper  awaiting 
us  ;  for  our  arrival  at  the  lake  that  night  was  not 
unlooked  for,  and  with  the  foresight  natural  to  his 
calling,  the  hunter  had  predicted  we  would  not  pass 
the  night  at  the  shanty. 

Our  supper  of  venison  and  sundry  accompaniments 
was  discussed  with  hearty  relish,  and  afterward,  with 
feet  toasting  before  the  roaring  fire,  we  passed  an  hour 
or  two  in  "deer  and  dog"  talk,  and  of  our  plans  for 
the  morrow. 

Ellis,  our  host,  was  a  whole-souled,  cheerful  fellow 


IN     AMERICA.  2.c>9 

and  withal,  intelligent.  Our  shelter  was  built  of  logs, 
rude,  yet  comfortable  enough  in  moderate  weather,  for 
two  small  rooms  were  all  that  it  contained,  and  they 
were  kitchen,  bed-room,  living  room  and  all.  Here 
the  old  settler  had  lived  for  years  with  a  wife  and  aN 
growing  fami'y  of  children  :  the  nearest  neighbor  four 
miles  distant  through  the  forest  and  the  nearest  town 
eight  miles  farther.  To  us,  used  as  we  are  to  the 
social  intercourse  of  communities,  it  is  a  marvel  how 
men  can  live  so  isolated,  unless  they  are  misanthropic, 
or  are  compelled  to  through  necessity,  which  was  not 
the  case  in  this  instance. 

Yet  I  have  seen  in  the  wilderness,  a  woman  who 
had  not  looked  upon  one  of  her  sex  for  eight  years,, 
nearly  one-third  of  her  lifetime.  With  her,  it  was 
necessity  at  first,  but  after  awhile  this  begot  indiffer 
ence,  and  she  was  happy  in  her  seclusion.  What  a 
blank  seems  such  an  existence  ! 

Among  the  hunters  and  loggers  who  here  and  there 
inhabit  this  northern  wilderness,  one  often  finds  men 
of  mind  and  manners  which  seem  at  utter  variance 
with  their  situation  and  calling. 

Some  of  them  have  seen  better  dnys  ;  but  either 
soured  by  disappointments  or  adventurous  in  then 
tastes,  have  adopted  that  mode  of  life.  Regardless  of 
our  conventionalities  they  meet  you  as  a  man,  with  a 


200  RURAL     LIFE 

hearty  grasp  of  the  hand  and  a  welcome,  if  you  will 
take  it  "  rough  and  tumble  "  with  them. 

A  man  who  cannot  follow  them  through  the  woods, 
or  ford  a  stream  if  it  crosses  the  path,  or  eat  out  of 
the  same  dish  and  drink  out  of  the  same  bottle,  gets 
very  little  sympathy  from  them. 

Their  motto  is,  "  take  it  as  you  get  it,"  and  my  own 
experience  has  taught  rne  it  is  the  only  comfortable 
plar.  So  in  their  camps  they  all  find  the  same  social 
level :  fraternization  and  "  solidarity,"  as  Kossuth  has 
it,  are  the  chief  elements  of  their  happiness  and 
success. 

"  And  the  strongest  of  hand  is  highest  in  rank, 
The  boldest  is  first  of  the  band." 

We  were  up  before  day-break  in  the  morning,  and 
sat  down  to  a  breakfast  of  pork  and  venison,  stewed 
cranberries,  bread  and  green  tea  ;  you  rarely  taste 
coffee  in  the  woods.  Our  meal  finished,  we  again 
essayed  the  "slash"  on  our  way  to  the  boats.  This 
time  the  passage  over  it  was  not  so  difficult,  for  Ellis 
had  his  private  path,  which  was  nothing  more  than 
adroit  jumping  from  one  log  to  another  where  they 
lay  a  little  more  smoothly  and  scattered. 

After  frequent  journeys  over  the  obstacle  during  the 
time  we  were  thereabout,  the  hurdle  jumpings  at  trie 


IN     AMERICA.  261 

Hippodrome  rather  fell  in  my  estimation.     They  were 
nothing  to  our  display  of  agility. 

As  \ve  expected  to  drive  the  deer  into  the  lake, 
which,  by  the  way,  is  a  mode  of  sport  I  do  not  like, 
inasmuch  as  the  game  are  out  of  their  element,  one 
of  the  hunters,  Tom,  who  had  been  at  the  shanty  all 
niirht,  took  the  dogs  some  two  miles  back  from  the 
lake  to  start  a  deer,  whilst  we,  each  in  a  boat, 
rowed  for  our  appointed  stations  on  the  opposite 
shore. 

My  stand  was  nearly  at  the  extreme  end,  so  I  had 
a  pull  of  some  two  miles  to  reach  it. 

It  was  a  lovely  day,  hazy  and  warm,  the  first  of  the 
Indian  summer.  The  water  lay  smooth  and  glassy, 
save  wThen  a  passing  breeze  rippled  its  surface. 

The  glorious  mountains  environing  it,  the  sombre 
pines,  and  tall  swaying  spruces,  the  lofty  tamaracks, 
and  graceful  hemlocks — all  mirrored  to  a  line  in  the 
clear,  deep  water ;  there  was  but  one  thing  wanting — 
the  bloom  and  verdure  of  summer. 

A  row  of  some  twenty  minutes  brought  me  to  my 
station,  where  I  moored  my  skiff  to  the  trunk  of  a 
hemlock  and  stepped  ashore. 

It  was  an  out-jutting  point,  covered  with  a  dense 
spruce  thicket,  except  where  it  had  been  cut  away  to 
give  room  for  a  fire,  which  here  we  are  always  at 
Lherty  to  kindle.  From  it  1  could  see  the  whole 


262  RURAL     LIFE 

expanse  of  the  lake,  and  also  my  companions  on  their 
stands,  half  a  mile  and  a  mile  from  me. 

I  selected  a  spot  where  I  could  sit  unseen  from  the 
opposite  shore,  and  listened  for  the  yell  of  the  hounds 
when  a  deer  should  be  started. 

No  sound  broke  the  perfect  stillness,  save  now  and 
then  the  quack  of  a  duck  or  the  cry  of  the  northern 
diver  far  out  in  the  lake.  An  hour  passed,  before  I 
caught  the  first  faint  bay  of  "  Dash,"  the  hound  that 
generally  took  the  lead.  He  was  a  mile  away,  cour 
sing  along  the  side  of  a  mountain,  between  which  and 
the  steep  shore  of  the  lake,  there  lay  a  deep  valley. 
By  the  undulations  of  his  voice,  I  could  tell  the  nature 
of  the  ground  over  which  he  was  chasing ;  now  seem 
ing  farther  off  as  they  took  the  low  ground  ;  now 
louder  and  nearer  as  they  gained  some  ridge-top,  till 
his  yell  opened  like  a  trumpet  on  the  summit  of  the 
ridge  nearest  me.  I  almost  held  my  breath  waiting 
for  the  deer  to  strike  the  shore,  for  the  dog  appeared 
to  be  making  for  a  point  nearly  opposite  me. 

A  moment  more,  and  over  a  fallen  pine  tree  that 
lay  along  the  steep  bank,  a  noble  buck  leaping  into  the 
lake,  throwing  the  water  up  into  spray  as  he  bounded 
forward.  Though  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  me,  I 
could  hear  his  rapid  strokes  and  labored  breathing  as 
he  made  for  the  shore  on  which  I  stood.  A  few 
minutes  more,  and  it  would  be  time  for  me  to  take  rny 


IN     AMERICA.  2(53 

boat  and  strive  to  cut  him  off  from  the  shore,  or  drive 
him  down  the  lake.  But  I  was  disappointed  ;  for  not 
hearing  the  dogs  after  him,  and  the  water  being  cold, 
he  turned  back  again.  It  was  too  long  a  shot  for  any 
probability  of  hitting  him,  so  I  watched  him  regain  the 
woods  and  dash  off  unharmed.  At  noon  we  all  met, 
according  to  signal,  at  the  brush  shanty,  where, 
reclining  on  odorous  hemlock  boughs  around  a  well 
piled  fire,  we  enjoyed  our  simple  luncheon  preparatory 
to  another  row  and  afternoon  stand.  But  one  more 
deer,  which  I  did  not  see,  but  my  nearer  companion 
did,  came  to  the  lake  that  day  ;  and  sundown  found 
us  once  more  displaying  our  agility  upon  the  sinuous 
"  slash1'  path  that  led  to  Ellis's  cabin. 

That  evening  we  listened  to  the  story  which  gave 
the  "  Silver  mountain"  its  euphonious  title. 

Even  here  in  the  wilderness,  men  have  become  the 
dupes  of  cunning  speculators,  and  the  victims  of  a  wild 
belief  in  clairvoyance  and  the  mysteries  of  the  "  dark 
stone." 

The  story  is  in  this  wise,  and  its  incidents  date  but 
a  few  months  back.  A  French  hunter,  in  his  tramps 
through  the  forest,  found  a  stone  flecked  with  shining 
particles  resembling  silver.  His  apparent  good  fortune 
was  soon  confided  to  a  few  of  his  trusty  brethren,  and 
having  sent  some  fifty  miles  for  a  man  who  pretended 
lo  see  far  down  in  the  earth  by  the  aid  of  magic  rods 


264  KUKAL     LIFE 

magician's  stone,  and  other  like  creations,  their  search 
lor  the  mine  commenced.  With  the  aid  of  a  conniving 
female  medium,  the  imposter  pointed  out  the  exact 
spot  where  the  vein  could  be  struck  with  very  little 
boring.  Expensive  tools  were  made  and  carried  with 
much  labor  six  miles  through  the  wilderness.  Cabins 
were  built,  and  provisions  stored  regardless  of  expense, 
for  the  miners  were  sanguine  of  soon  amassing  great 
wealth.  By  and  by,  great  blasts  were  made,  awaken 
ing  the  solitudes  far  and  near,  and  days  and  wreeks  of 
constant  and  expensive  toil  were  rewarded  with  not 
even  the  promise  of  success.  The  bubble  at  last  burst ; 
the  magnetizer  and  his  accomplice  decamped  with 
their  ill-gotten  gains,  and  ere  long  the  miners,  one  by 
one,  dropped  away  from  the  camp,  laden  not  with  ore, 
but  with  dearly-bought  experience. 

Thenceforth  the  mountain  at  whose  base  the  mine 
was  supposed  to  be,  and  which  was  nameless  before, 
has  borne  its  present  title,  and  will  bear  it  for  ever. 
Those  w7ho  were  beguiled  in  that  futile  research  after 
hidden  treasures,  never  or  seldom  speak  of  their  opera 
tions — it  is  a  forbidden  subject — but  it  would  take  u 
very  shrewd  "professor"  to  beguile  them  again. 

Two  days  more  were  spent  on  and  about  the  lake, 
but  either  from  the  coldness  of  the  water  or  the 
frequency  with  which  they  had  been  hunted  that 
season,  the  deer  avoided  the  lake  when  started  by  the 


IN     AMERICA.  2l)6 

dogs,  and  took  another  direction  toward  the  Salmon 
river  or  the  Horse  Shoe  pond,  some  miles  distant. 

Our  hunters  advised  hunting  on  "  run-ways,"  and 
we,  hoping  for  better  luck,  assented.  Once  more  our 
luggage  was  bagged  and  shouldered,  and  we  started 
on  a  five-mile  tramp.  Fording  half-frozen  streams  on 
foot,  or  crossing  them  on  slippery  logs — wading  voozy 
swamps — threading  pathless  woods,  and  climbing  steep 
ridges,  noon  found  us  on  the  ground,  four  miles  from 
the  nearest  habitation. 

Our  first  stands  were  on  the  crest  of  a  lofty  ridge 
which  was  attained  from  the  river's  level  with  arduous 
climbing.  Before  reaching  its  base,  we  couid  see 
nothing  before  or  around  us  but  dense  thickets, 
spruce  and  alder  ;  yet,  following  our  guide  closely,  and 
struggling  through  intertwisted  branches  and  over 
fallen  logs,  we  commenced  ascending. 

Patiently,  and  breathlessly  almost,  we  climbed  on, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  recruit  our  lungs,  and  won 
dering  how  far  we  were  from  the  summit. 

At  length  we  came  into  the  more  open  timber  of 
beech  and  maple  which  crowned  the  ridge. 

Deer  tracks  were  abundant  on  every  side,  and  the 
sight  of  them  alone  inspirited  us. 

One  of  the  hunters  assigned  us  our  stands,  neai 
which  the  deer  would  run,  if  started,  towards  the  river, 
whose  waters  washed  the1  base  of  the  hill  on  the  oppo 


2t)fi  RURAL     LIFE 

site  side  to  that  from  which  \ve  had  come,  (.'rent 
quiet  and  watchfulness  are  requisite  in  this  mode  of 
hunting,  though  to  many  it  is  by  far  the  plcasantest 
plan,  but  most  fatiguing  on  account  of  so  much  walk 
ing  from  one  section  to  another. 

My  stand  was  by  a  fallen  pine  tree  that  lay  upon 
the  brow  of  the  ridge,  from  which  the  descent  to  the 
river  was  over  a  thousand  feet,  yet  not  very  steep. 
The  view  of  the  country  beneath  me  and  far  away  to 
the  south  and  west,  was  worth  a  day's  travel. 

The  rapid  stream,  winding  with  short  and  graceful 
curves  through  the  low  land  and  forest  till  lost  to 
view — the  vast  stretch  of  widerness,  with  no  clearing 
or  habitation  in  sight — the  distant  ridges  with  their  sides 
of  evergreen  timber,  and  beyond  them  the  higher  peaks 
of  the  Adirondacks,  capped  with  snow;  combined  to 
form  a  landscape  I  thought  could  rarely  be  surpassed - 

But  soon  the  rifle  of  the  hunter  who  had  charge  ol 
the  dogs  told  us  that  a  deer  was  started.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  faint  bay  of  the  hounds  came  up  over  the 
ridge,  now  louder,  now  almost  unheard,  till  it  died 
away  in  the  distance.  That  deer  was  lost  to  us,  for 
he  went  round  the  ridge,  instead  of  across  it. 

The  day  was  waning,  and  we  had  four  miles  to 
walk,  besides  the  river  to  cross,  on  our  nearest  route 
to  a  shelter ;  but  before  joining  my  companions,  I 
thought  I  would  shoot  a  partridge  that  sat  drumming 


IN     AMERICA.  267 

on  a  log  a  few  rods  from  me.  As  I  carefully  walked 
forward,  a  deer,  which  had  probably  been  lying  in  her 
bed  not  far  off,  and  roused  by  my  footsteps,  sprang 
with  tremendous  bounds  down  the  hillside  for  the 
river  below.  Through  the  dense  timber  I  caught  for 
a  moment  a  fair  view  of  her  going  from  me,  and  I 
fired,  but  with  little  hope  of  reaching  her. 

She  staggered,  however,  and  fell,  but  rose  again 
with  a  broken  leg  dangling  uselessly  in  her  flight. 

Following  quickly  on  her  track  to  where  the  view 
was  more  open,  I  stood  and  watched  her  tripedal  race 
to  the  bottom  of  the  slope.  She  plunged  into  the 
stream  and  swam  across,  regaining  the  opposite  shore, 
and  clumsily  leaping  some  fallen  timber  that  lay  upon 
the  bank,  disappeared  in  the  forest.  My  shot  had 
brought  my  companions  to  me,  and  with  one  of  the 
dogs,  which  had  come  in,  the  hunters  started  in  pur 
suit.  It  was  not  long  before  Dash  caught  the  wounded 
animal,  as  its  pitiful  and  quavering  bleat  announced. 
The  men,  following  the  sounds,  came  up  in  time  to 
give  it  the  finishing  stroke,  and  soon  returned  to  us 
waiting  by  the  river  bank,  bearing  the  deer.  As  it  was 
getting  late  and  dark,  the  question  arose  how  we  were 
to  get  it  out  of  the  woods ;  but  these  hunters  are 
never  in  a  dilemma.  One  of  them  proposed  to  make 
a  raft  of  logs  and  float  down  the  river  w,th  it  to  the 
fording  place,  two  miles  below,  whcrn  we  were  to 


268  KUKAL     LIFE 

cross.  The  raft,  bound  together  with  withes,  wras 
soon  made,  and  Tom  on  it,  floating  quickly  clown 
the  stream.  Our  return  path  was  nearly  the  one  by 
which  we  had  come,  but  doubly  intricate  on  account 
of  the  darkness  ;  but  an  half  hour's  walk  brought  us 
to  the  ford,  where  Tom  was  awaiting  us  with  his  raft, 
ready  to  ferry  us  over.  His  small  and  slippery  craft 
would  support  but  two  at  a  time,  so  one  by  one,  we 
were  ferried  over  and  landed  without  any  mishap, 
except  an  unlucky  slip  of  one  of  us  into  the  river, 
where  the  water  was  waist  deep  and  icy  cold.  Shoul 
dering  the  deer,  our  guides  led  the  way,  and  an  hour's 
walk  brought  us  to  a-  comfortable  cabin  beneath  the 
shadow  of  a  mountain  by  the  river  bank.  That  night 
we  sat  long  by  the  great,  crackling  fire,  listening  to 
tales  of  sport  and  danger  from  our  hardy  companions, 
who  little  thought  there  was  a  "  chiel  among  them 
taking  notes." 


IX     A  !tr  V.  Tt  T  f1  A  .  269 


XIII. 

THE  last  night  we  had  spent  at  the  lake  was  one  of 
storm  and  tumult :  such  a  night  as  made  the  cabin  of 
.Ellis  a  shelter  not  to  be  despised. 

All  the  day,  the  near  mountain  tops  had  been 
wreathed  by  heavy  mists,  which  at  intervals  came 
down  before  the  sleet-laden  gusts,  enveloping  the 
forest  and  the  lake  in  vapory  shrouds. 

We  had  found  it  difficult  to  keep  our  fires  ablaze 
upon  our  stands  that  stormy  noon,  and  as  the  chance 
of  driving  a  deer  to  water  seemed  rather  doubtful,  our 
spirits  and  the  weather  were  well  nigh  congenial.  It 
was  to  be  our  last  rendezvous  at  the  shanty,  and  as  we 
pulled  our  skiffs  ashore  under  the  drooping  hemlocks, 
which  the  clear,  cold  waters,  over  which  they  hung, 
mirrored  so  perfectly,  I  stood  for  a  moment  to  indulge 
the  reflections  which  the  scene  engendered. 

Here  and  there  upon  the  opposite  shore,  the  blue 
smoke  of  our  untended  fires  was  curling  gracefully 
upward  and  mingling  with  the  white  mist  that  lay 
along  the  tree-tops  and  the  hillsides.  A  log  canoe, 
with  shattered  side,  which  a  wandering  Indian  had 


210  RURAL     LIFE 

used  in  hunting  a  year  ago,  lay  half  sunken  near  thu 
shore,  and  not  far  distant  were  the  remnants  of  tru; 
cabin  he  had  built,  and  when  departing,  burned,  that 
the  white  man  might  not  have  it  for  a  shelter.  I 
thought  of  the  red  men  and  their  fate,  and  how  in  days 
gone  by,  their  council-fires  had  blazed  upon  these  very 
shores,  and  the  forest  around  me  echoed  with  their 
war-songs. 

But  they  are  gone  now,  and  the  few  wandering  out 
casts  that  remain,  are  but  the  mockeries  of  former 
greatness.  Alas,  for  the  red  man  !  Well  has  the  po*:t 
said — 

"  Nor  lofty  pile,  nor  glowing  page, 
Shall  link  him  to  a  future  age, 

Or  give  him  with  the  past  a  rank : 
His  heraldry  is  but  a  broken  bow, 
His  history  but  a  tale  of  wrong  and  woe, 

His  very  name  must  be  a  blank." 

But  my  reveries  were  broken  by  the  stentorian  voice 
of  Ellis,  calling  me  to  "  come  and  get  dinner,"  or  I 
would  lose  my  share,  as  he  was  "  orful  hungary." 

Thinking  this  would  suit  Kossuth  about  as  well  as 

O 

myself,  though  I  was  rather  more  interested  in  and 
anxious  for  the  "  material  aid  and  comfort  "  the  good 
hunter  promised,  I  was  soon  seated  by  the  great  fire 
before  the  shanty,  with  the  smoking  wing  of  a  par 


IN     AMERICA. 

tridge  in  one  hand,  and  a  chunk  of  bread  in  the  other, 
expatiating  between  the  mouthsfull,  upon  the  extreme 
liberality  of  the  party  in  my  behalf,  in  regard  to  my 
appetite. 

"  So  much  for  standiri  thar,  a  strainin  yer  eyes  arter 
nothin,"  says  Ellis. 

"We're  all  starved  here — fust  come,  fust  sarved," 
chimed  in  Tom.  And  so  I  felt  very  much  like  a 
martyr  to  my  silent  sympathy  for  the  red  man. 

My  delicate  dinner  was  soon  finished,  and  so,  pack 
ing  our  small  stock  of  cooking  utensils  in  carrying 
condition  upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  Tom,  who  was 
to  go  to  Salmon  river  that  evening,  where  we  were  to 
meet  him  on  the  morrow,  we  once  more  returned  by 
the  lake  to  Ellis's  cabin. 

Ere  we  reached  it,  the  storm  had  increased  almost 
to  a  gale,  and  the  snow  now  falling  rapidly,  was  drift 
ing  before  it  in  blinding  clouds. 

Right  glad  were  we  to  reach  our  shelter,  and 
exchange  our  damp  clothes  for  others  kept  in  reserve 
for  just  such  an  occasion. 

When  supper  was  served  and  we  were  enjoying  it, 
I  fancied,  and  Ellis  asserted  that  my  appetite  had 
improved  wonderfully  since  morning ;  he  was  even 
commencing  to  philosophize  as  to  the  cause,  when  I 
reminded  him  of  my  partridge  wing  and  bread,  minus 
butter,  at  the  shanty. 


272  RURAL     L  I   F  F 

I  even  went  farther,  and  committed  the  imprudence 
of  informing  him  what  I  was  thinking  of,  when  he 
supposed  I  was  looking  for  a  deer,  and  cut  short  my 
reverie  by  his  call  to  dinner. 

Ellis   had    some    sympathy   akin  to  mine,   for  the 

unfortunate  Indian,  but  0 ,  our  other  companion, 

had  none. 

"  You  needn't  preach  to  me  about  the  tarnal  red 
skins,"  said  he,  "  for  didn't  that  skulking  rascal  that 
hunted  here  a  year  ago,  steal  a  buck  saddle  of  mine 
what  hung  in  the  gap  yonder ;  and  didn't  he  steal  Bill 
Parris's  powder-horn  too  ?  Don't  talk  to  me  on  em, 
they're  a  bad  brood." 

So  much  for  my  sentiment  in  that  quarter,  and  on 
that  subject  :  there  was  no  need  of  preaching  any 
more,  and  I  did  not. 

Supper  over,  we  each  employed  ourselves  as  pleased 

us.     Ellis  and  W were  soon  playing  "  pull  and 

haul "  from  one  side  of  the  cabin  to  the  other,  by  the 
medium  of  a  rifle  and  its  refractory  cleaning  rod, 
which  no  gentler  persuasion  could  move  one  way  or 
the  other. 

It  came  at  last,  however,  by  a  dexterous  jerk  of 
Ellis's,  and  with  a  corresponding  movement  in  the 

opposite  direction,  W went,  and   some   crockery 

went  too,  to  say  nothing  of  the  rather  severe  concus 
sion  another  individual  received,  whilst  poring  over 


INAMEBICA.  273 

the  pages  of  "  Bleak  House "  by  the  dim  light  of  a 
dee^-tallow  dip. 

0 ,  who  was  inclined  to  be  taciturn  at  times,  sat 

in  one  corner  of  the  room,  quietly  enjoying  his  pipe 
and  W 's  overthrow. 

We  sat  up  late  that  night,  for  it  was  to  be  our  last 
there,  unless  the  storm  should  continue  and  detain  us. 

The  wind  made  a  great  strife  amidst  the  old  trees 
that  long  wintry  night,  for  they  flung  their  huge  arms 
about,  and  intertwined  their  long,  giant  fingers,  till 
some  were  broken  and  disjointed,  and  came  crashing 
to  the  ground. 

How  mournfully  wailed  the  wind  through  the  dense 
pines  ;  how  it  whistled  and  soughed  amidst  the  close 
and  swaying  spruces  !  Its  voice  brought  to  me  memo 
ries  of  a  long  gone  night  at  sea,  when  a  noble  ship,  in 
which  strong  men  trembled  and  frail  women  wept, 
bravely  struggled  and  outlived  the  storm. 

There  were  tones  on  the  gale  that  night  which  the 
forest  seemed  to  echo  back  in  all  their  wildness  of 
grief  and  terror. 

"  It  was  such  a  night  as  this,"  said  Ellis,  "  the  wind 
made  just  such  a  mournful  noise  like,  when  Bill  Parris 
went  off.  He  was  my  nighest  neighbor  then — about 
four  miles  away  west,  towards  Ragged  lake.  He  took 
a  bad  cough,  sugar  makin  time,  and,  though  I  guess 

he  was  a  deal  heavier  than  m,°,  before  September  he 
18 


214  BUBAL     L1JTIE 

didn't  weigh  more  than  a  spike-buck.  Along  towards 
winter,  the  doctor  gin  him  up,  and  Bill  kinder  felt  he 
wouldn't  last  long,  and  gan  to  get  uneasy  about  his 
tamily  ;  for  he  had  a  woman  and  two  young  gals.  But 
somehow,  he  got  all  that  fixed,  and  sold  his  clearin 
besides,  and  gin  her  the  money,  so  arter  he  should  be 
dead,  she  should  go  back  to  her  folks  down  on  the 
Black  river.  Bill  sent  over  arter  me  one  cold  Novem  • 
her  mornin,  for,  as  I  said  before,  I  wras  his  nighest 
neighbor,  and  he  wanted  me  to  see  him  buried,  for  ho 
said  he  wouldn't  last  the  night.  It  was  gloomy  enough 
there,  I  tell  you,  and  the  way  it  came  on  to  storm  that 
night  was  a  caution.  There  was  a  growth  of  heavy 
pine  timber  just  behind  the  cabin  ;  and  when  the  wind 
came  in  gusts  like  through  the  trees,  it  sounded  like 
uneasy  spirits  a  groaning  and  sighing.  Bill  was  very 
restive  all  the  arternoon,  and  when  it  got  dark,  so  he 
couldn't  see  plain,  he  had  a  dip  lighted,  and  got  his 
woman  to  read  him  a  psalm  out  of  the  Bible. 

"  Once  in  a  while  he  would  groan,  and  kinder  jump 
up  and  look  wild,  and  say  somethin  to  himself.  I 
thought  he  was  wanderin,  but  I  don't  think  so  now : 
for  I  heerd  some  one  tell  since,  that  know'd  him,  how 
he  was  rich  once  and  his  father  lived  down  in  Warren 
county,  and  he  used  to  go  to  York  sometimes.  Bill 
must  have  seen  better  times  some  day,  for  he  w;>s 
smart  and  had  considerable  larr.in.  Eat  let  the  dead 


IN     AMERICA.  275 

be  :  he  was  'a  good  feller  as  ever  lived,  and  I  allers 
liked  him.  Well,  as  it  got  towards  night,  he  grew 
worse,  and  he  called  the  children  to  him,  and  gin  them 
some  advice,  and  then  he  told  his  woman  what  she 
must  do  ;  and  after  that,  he  made  me  promise  to  bury 
him  under  an  old  hemlock  back  of  the  house.  It 
wasn't  till  nigh  mornin  that  he  died,  and  jest  before, 
he  asked  his  wife  to  turn  him  on  his  back.  That 
brought  on  a  coughin  spell  and  a  gush  of  blood :  so 
that  was  the  last  of  poor  Bill. 

"  I  came  over  home  and  got  my  hoy  to  go  and  help 
dig  the  grave,  and  that  arternoon  we  buried  him  under 
the  old  hemlock.  We  all  brought  over  what  we  could 
of  the  truck  and  notions  in  the  cabin,  and  left  the  rest 
for  the  new  settler.  The  woman  and  her  gals  staid 
with  us  awhile,  and  then  went  off  to  the  settlements 
down  on  the  Black  river.  Poor  Bill !  we  missed  him 
a  good  deal,  loggin  that  season,  for  he  swung  a  power 
ful  axe  and  was  a  right  jovial  feller  when  he  wras  wel, 
and  strong.  But  jest  hear  how  the  wind  blows  :  it 
ain't  often  so  here,  the  woods  to  the  nor'-west  is  so 
thick." 

It  was  a  fitting  time  for  such  a  tale,  and  we,  almost 
strangers  to  the  gloom  and  loneliness  of  the  forest, 
could  only  fancy  the  awful  solemnity  of  such  a  death 
scene. 

The  morninsr  hours  had  come  before  we  laid  dowr* 


270  RURAL     LIFE 

to  take  a  short  nap  previous  to  our  tramp ;  but  the 
narrative  of  Ellis  had  put  us  in  a  wakeful  rnood,  and 
we  listened  with  interest  to  farther  tales  of  excitement 
and  wild  adventure.  Many  were  the  stories  they  told 
us  of  daring  encounters  with  bears  and  catamounts, 
and  hair-breadth  escapes  of  life  and  limb  too,  from  the 
noble  moose,  which,  wilder  and  fiercer  than  either  of 
the  others  in  close  combat,  was  their  choicest  game. 
These,  more  shy  in  their  habits  than  deer,  have  gone 
farther  into  the  wilderness,  amidst  the  recesses  of  the 
Adirondacks  and  the  Raquette  river,  where  we  iniy  at 
some  future  day  strive  to  follow  them. 

With  all  our  fondness  for  forest  scenes  and  associa 
tions,  and  enjoying  as  we  did  the  rough  though  exciting 
life  of  the  hunter,  we  were  sorry  not  to  be  able  to 
spend  a  week  longer  in  the  woods. 

We  had  tramped  many  miles,  day  after  day,  over 
swamps  and  hills,  and  through  pathless  forests,  and 
when  night  came,  we  had  slept  none  the  less  soundly 
because  our  couch  was  of  hemlock  twigs  rather  than 
feathers,  and  our  shelter  none  the  closest.  Yet— <• 

"  Fresh  we  woke  upon  the  morrow, 

All  our  thoughts  and  words  had  scope ; 
"We  had  health  and  we  had  hope, 
Toil  and  travel,  but  no  sorrow." 


INAMEEICA.  2'  7 


XIV. 

IT  is  a  dreary  winter  night,  and  the  snow  is  falling 
fast,  arid  drifting  deep  about  the  mansion  at  Briar-clifF. 
Yet  within,  all  is  glowing  and  cheerful,  for  every  one 
is  happy.  Minnie  and  I  are  storm-bound- for  the  night, 
so  we  make  ourselves  at  home. 

"  Come  Harry,"  says  Frank,  "  take  the  easy-chair 
and  draw  up  to  the  fire  ;  I  want  you  to  read  a  page 
or  two  from  my  journal  that  I  kept  dm  ing  my  last 
year's  travel.  To-night  is  the  anniversary  of  oi.e  I 
shall  never  forget.  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  my 
college  chum  Larry  G ,  haven't  you  ?" 

"  Yes — he  is  living  at  the  South,  is  he  not ;  was  he 
not  a  Virginian  ?" 

"  Why  no,  Harry  !  I  thought  I  wrote  you  that  I 
met  him  abroad  :  you  are  thinking  of  Travers,  quite 
another  person." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Frank,  you  only  wrote  rue  one 
long  letter  whilst  you  were  away  ;  the  rest  were  very 
unsatisfactory,  I  assure  you.  But  I  remember  now 
that  you  were  obliged  to  go  somewhere  South  after 
your  return  ;  lo  convey  bad  news,  I  remember  you 


278  RURAL     LIFE 

/ 
said  :   and  you  promised  to  tell  us  the  particulars  when 

you  returned ;  but  it  was  forgotten  amidst  other 
matters." 

"  Well !  here  is  a  little  sketch  I  scrihbled  off  the 
other  day  for  our  village  paper.  Read  it  whilst  I  write 
a  letter  or  twro  :  it  is  truthful  at  any  rate." 

I  draw  my  chair  under  the  reading  lamp,  and  read 
in  Frank's  familiar  characters,  his  feeling  sketch  of  a 

friend's  melancholy  fate.          *          *          *          *          * 

********* 

"  When  the  flush  and  buoyancy  of  Youth  are  over, 
and  the  days  are  reached  in  which  we  look  back  upon 
the  Past  with  somewhat  of  regret,  and  to  the  future 
with  less  of  enthusiasm  ;  how  often  do  memories  of 
school  and  college  life  crowd  upon  the  spirit !  some 
fraught  with  joy — others  tinctured  with  enduring  sad 
ness. 

"  Of  those  with  whom  we  wrere  then  so  intimately 
associated,  how  few  can  we  discern  through  the  mists 
which  veil  the  Past,  or  gather  round  us  in  our  Present 
hours  of  need  and  pleasure  !  Some  are  far  off  by  sea 
and  land — others,  in  untimely  graves  :  some,  nearing 
with  steady  yet  toilsome  step  Fame's  dizzy  height  and 
gilded  temple — others,  fast  travelling  the  smooth  road 
to  ruin. 

"  Of  one  in  whom  I  felt  an  unchanging  interest,  I 
may  be  privileged  to  speak,  feeling  that  beneath  the 


IN     AMERICA.  2*9 

slight  disguise  which  robes  the  memoir,  none  may 
recognize  its  subject ;  for  the  annals  of  every-day  life 
are  full  of  like  histories. 

"  He  was  my  chum  at  college  ;  and  of  the  close 
intimacy  which  such  an  association  always  begets,  how 
many  pleasant  recollections  are  treasured  up,  never  to 
be  forgotten — shadows  of  past  hours  indelibly  daguer- 
reotyped  upon  the  tablets  of  the  heart.  Situated  as 
we  were,  of  course  we  were  much  together.  We  held 
everything  in  common — studied  the  same  books — 
roved  the  same  paths — cultivated  the  same  tastes — in 
all  save  one  thing  :  and  that  was  my  friend's  grievous 
failing — a  love  for  strong  drink. 

"  Full  of  generous  feeling — keenly  alive  to  all  that 
was  due  alike  to  others  as  himself,  and  in  everything 
else  the  beau  ideal  of  all  that  man  may  deem  noble  in 
a  fellow  man:  it  was  a  source  of  deep  grief  to  me 
thus  to  see  him  becoming  a  slave  to  one  of  the  most 
debasing  tastes  that  can  disgrace  humanity. 

"  It  was  to  be  attributed  in  a  great  measure  to  the 
absence  of  those  domestic  ties,  which,  woven  round 
us  in  youth,  are  rarely  to  be  broken  in  maturer  years. 
Bereft  early  in  life  of  a  fond  mother,  and  soon  after, 
of  his  father  also,  he  was  thrown  much  into  the  world, 
with  an  ample  fortune  and  a  character  unformed. 

"  The  precincts  of  a  college  are  not  always  the 
most  favorable  for  the  moral?  of  a  student,  and  there 


280  BURAL     LIFE 

were  no  opportunities  lacking  by  which  my  friend 
might  indulge  his  taste  :  and  still  it  seemed  to  me  as 
if  it  was  a  desire  inborn,  coeval  with  his  very  being, 
so  necessary  did  it  seem  to  his  existence,  and  so  firmly 
did  he  repel  all  my  attempts  to  reason  with  him  con 
cerning  it.  It  was  only  occasionally  that  he  so  far 
indulged  as  to  compromise  his  self-respect  or  that  of 
others. 

"  He  was  a  hard  student,  and  by  far  the  best  linguist 
of  his  class.  From  the  first,  I  knew  he  \vas  striving 
for  one  of  the  high  honors  ;  and  I  have  often  awakened 
at  night,  to  find  him  '  keeping  the  small  hours '  in 
unwearied  study. 

"  Four  years  had  nearly  passed  away,  and  our  colle 
giate  course  was  drawing  to  its  close.  My  chum's 
ambition  was  not  disappointed ;  for  he  was  awarded 
an  high  honor,  and  this  was  ample  recompense  to  him 
for  his  hours  of  toil.  He  had  manfully  striven  for  the 
prize,  and  it  was  won. 

"  Commencement    day    came,    and   with    it    those 
regretful  feelings  which  fill  the  heart  of  the  student 
as  he  begins  to  realize  how  many  pleasant  associations 
— how  many  ardent  friendships,  must  soon  be  '  num 
bered  among  the  things  that  were.' 

"  Some  were  gay,  some  thoughtful,  some  sad,  on 
that  eventful  morning.  To  many,  life  had  been,  and 
seemingly  was  to  be,  an  easy  oath  strewn  with  flow* 


IN     AMEEICA. 

ers  :  to  others — a  wild  battle,  in  which  they  were  to 
struggle  for  a  fortune  or  renown. 

"  The  exercises  and  excitements  of  the  day  over,  we 
sat  together  for  the  last  time  in  our  little  study,  the 
scene  of  so  many  pleasant  interviews  and  such  close 
companionship. 

"  On  the  morrow  we  were  to  separate.  He,  to  the 
home  of  Southern  friends,  and  I,  for  mine  own  at  the 
North. 

"  My  heart  was  filled  with  many  fearful  misgivings 
as  to  the  future  course  of  my  friend.  I  had  done  all 
that  I  could  to  wean  him  from  his  fearful  mania :  but 
now  that  the  little  influence  I  possessed  over  him  was 
to  cease,  how  could  I  but  fear  that  the  serpent  which 
has  '  cast  down  many  strong  men  wounded,'  might 
destroy  him  also. 

"  We  parted  with  the  mutual  promise  of  frequent 
correspondence,  and  the  hope  that  we  might  often 
meet  to  renew  old  associations.  And  thus  our  paths 
in  life  diverged,  and  we  knew  not  whether  they  should 
meet  again. 

"With  the  strong  buckler  of  our  young  manhood 
girt  firmly  on — a  good  education — we  were  leaving  the 
fostering  care  of  our  alma  mater,  to  enter  the  wide 
arena  of  the  world,  wherein  to  strive  for,  and  it  might 
be,  win — a  name. 

"  A  year  passed  away,  and  during  that  time  T  heard 


2S2  RURAL     LIFE 

frequently  from  my  friend.     Favored  with  great  advan 
tages  of  wealth  and  station,  yet  too  ambitious  to  waste 
his  acquirements  by  a  life  of  indolence,  he  was  rising 
rapidly  iu  his  profession,  and  gaining  an, enviable  noto 
riety. 

"  As  of  old,  our  hopes  and  fears  were  blended  :  the 
confidence  of  past  days  was  not  lessened  by  absence, 
and  we  continued  to  feel  that  interest  in  each  other, 
which  early  and  long-tried  friendship  alone  begets. 

"  Our  first  meeting  since  we  parted  at  college,  was 
on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Europe.  He  said  that 
his  health  was  suffering  from  too  close  application  to 
his  professional  duties ;  but  I  feared  that  a  more 
insidious  foe  than  hard  study  was  preying  on  his 
strength,  and  gradually  undermining  his  naturally 
strong  constitution. 

"  He  sailed,  yet  first  committing  to  my  friendly 
attentions,  one  wrhom  he  hoped  to  call  his  wife  at  some 
future  day.  It  were  better  for  him  and  her,  had  she 
sooner  become  his  'guardian  angel !' 

"  Ere  long,  an  opportunity  offered  by  which  I  was 
enabled  to  gratify  a  long-cherished  desire  to  visit  some 
of  the  countries  of  the  old  world ;  and  the  pleasure 
was  enhanced  by  the  hope  that  I  might  again  be 
thrown  into  the  company  of  my  friend 

"  I  tracked  him  from  Paris,  and  we  clasped  hands 
again  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno,  in  lovely  Florence ; 


IN     AMERICA.  283 

but  the  gladness  of  meeting-  was  sadly  shadowed  as  I 
looked  upon  the  wreck  of  all  that  was  once  so  noble. 

"  It  was  late  in  the  summer,  and  we  proposed 
travelling  further  north  till  the  approach  of  winter, 
when  we  would  go  through  France  arid  take  the 
Mediterranean  to  Southern  Italy. 

"We  crossed  the  St.  Bernard  into  Switzerland,  and 
after  wandering  awhile  over  the  rich  plains  of  the 
Vallais,  took  up  our  residence  at  a  rustic  inn  on  the 
shore  of  lake  Luzerne  ;  whence  we  made  excursions 
of  days  at  a  time  to  objects  and  places  of  interests 
more  or  less  remote.  I  fancied  that  the  pure,  invigo 
rating  air  of  the  mountains,  the  cool  waters  of  the 
lake,  and  more  than  all,  the  absence  of  undue  excite 
ment,  might  have  their  influence  upon  my  friend's 
temperament. 

"  I  believe  that  if  I  could  have  kept  him  a  few 
weeks  isolated  from  the  exciting  scenes  and  habits  of 
the  gay  watering-places,  whither  his  desires  tended,  I 
could  have  prevailed  on  him  to  cast  aside  for  ever  the 
habit  that  was  destroying  him.  But  it  was  not  so  to 
be .  the  demon  was  within  him :  and  he  one  day 
threatened  that  if  I  did  not  yield  to  his  wish  and  go 
with  him  to  Paris,  he  would  start  off  alone.  I  had 
never  seen  him  more  excited.  Persuasion  and  reason 
ing  on  my  part  were  alike  useless  ;  and  all  that  I 
could  do,  was  to  alter  the  route,  and  take  the  road  to 


284  RURAL     LIFE 

Italy.  I  sougnt  to  keep  him  constantly  moving 
From  Florence  to  Rome  —  from  Rome  to  Tivoli, 
Genoa,  Pisa,  Naples  and  its  environs — we  travelled 
till  winter. 

"  January  found  us  again  in  Naples,  enjoying  its 
balmy  air,  arid  the  countless  beauties  of  earth  and 
water  which  surround  the  city  of  the  Siren. 

"  But  to  me,  its  dolce  far  niente  was  a  mockery,  for 
it  required  the  utmost  watchfulness  on  my  part,  lest 
in  some  hour  of  mania,  occasioned  by  indulgence,  my 
companion  should  destroy  himself  or  me. 

"  He  became  at  last  unmanageable.  His  physician 
could  do  no  more  for  him,  and  I  had  done  all  that  a 
brother  could  do  in  his  behalf. 

"  In  the  beautiful  city  of  Messina,  there  is  an  asylum 
for  the  insane,  and  by  the  advice  of  physicians  and 
others,  my  friend  was  taken  there — a  raving  maniac. 
All  hope  of  his  recovery  was  over,  and  he  went  there 
to  die.  He  did  not  last  long;  but  there  came  a  lucid 
interval,  when  he  spoke  of  loved  ones  far  away,  and 
of  one  dearer  than  all  others.  He  knew  it  would 
break  her  heart,  if  she  should  know  his  fate. 

"Though  in  a  strange  land,  one  friend  went  with 
him  to  '  the  dark  valley,'  and  marked  out  his  place  of 
burial.  The  stranger  in  Naples,  wandering  over  that 
loveliest  of  cemeteries  overlooking  the  bay  and  its 
charming  shores,  will  not  fail  to  note  the  few  white 


INAMERICA.  285 

tablets  which  record  the  names  of  those  who  have 
won  a  stranger's  grave.  Amidst  them  sleeps  my 
friend.  His  history  is  but  a  page  or  two  in  a  faith 
fully  kept  journal,  which  all  may  read :  but  his 
memory  is  cherished  by  a  few  fond  friends  in  those 
niches  of  the  heart  which  no  other  image  may  ever 
fill.  To  the  one  whose  young  hopes  were  so  rudely 
blighted,  it  was  a  joy  to  know  that — 

'  E'en  as  the  weary  spirit  passed, 
Her  name  was  on  his  marble  lips.' " 


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Containing  Madeline,  the  Heiress,  The  Martyr  Wife  and  Ruined 
Gamester.     Cloth,  izmo.,  with  Mezzotint  engraving.     $1.00. 
"Contains  several  sketches  of  thrilling  interest." 

THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  DEMON. 

A  Book  of  Startling  Interest.     A  handsome  I2mo  volume,     $1.00. 

"In  this  exciting  s*,ory,  Mr.  Arthur  has  taken  hold  of  the  reader's  attention 
with  a  more  than  usually  vigorous  grasp,  and  keeps  him  absorbed  to  the  end 
of  the  volume." 

THE    WAY    TO    PROSPER, 

AND  OTHER  TALES.  Cloth,  izmo.,  with  engraving.  Price  $1.00. 
TRUE  RICHES;  OR  WEALTH  WITHOUT  WINGS, 

AND  OTHER  TALES.  Cloth,  izmo.,  with  Mezzotint  engraving. 
Price,  $1.00. 


LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.    G.    EVANS.  J 

THE  YOUNG  LADY  AT  HOME. 

A  Series  of  Home  Stories  for  American  Women.      I2mo.     $1.00. 

TRIALS  AND  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  HOUSEKEEPER. 

With  14  Spirited  Illustrations,      izmo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

The  range  of  subjects  in  this  book  embrace  the  grave  and  instructive,  ns 
well  as  the  agreeable  and  amusing.  No  Lady  reader  familiar  with  the  trials 
and  perplexities  incident  to  Housekeeping,  can  fail  to  recognize  many  of  her 
own  experiences,  for  every  picture  here  presented  has  been  drawn  from  life. 

THE  WITHERED  HEART. 

With  line  Mezzotint  Frontispiece.      izmo.,  Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

This  work  has  gone  through  several  editions  in  England,  although  pub 
lished  but  a  short  time,  and  has  had  the  most  flattering  notices  from  the 
English  Press. 

STEPS  TOWARD  HEAVEN. 

A  Series  of  Lay  Sermcuis  for  Converts  in  the  Great  Awakening, 
izmo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

THE  HAND  BUT  NOT  THE  HEART; 
OR,  LIFE  TRIALS  OF  JESSIE  LORING.     izmo.,  cloth.     Price,  $1.00. 

THE  GOOD  TIME  COMING. 
Large  izmo.,  with  fine   Mezzotint  Frontispiece.     Price,  '8 1. oo. 

LEAVES  FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 

Large  izmo.     With  30  illustrations  and  steel  plate.     Price  $1.00. 
"It  includes  some  of  the  best  humorous  sketches  of  the  author." 

HEART  HISTORIES  AND  LIFE  PICTURES. 

izmo.     Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"In  the  preparation  of  this  volume,  we  have  endeavored  to  show,  that 
whatever  tends  to  awaken  our  sympathies  towards  others,  is  an  individual 
benefit  as  well  as  a  common  good." 

SPARING  TO  SPEND ;  OR,  THE  LOFTONS  AND  PINKERTONS. 

izmo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

The  purpose  of  this  volume  ia  to  exhibit  the  evils  that  flow  from  the  too 
eommon  lack  of  prudence. 


4  LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.    G.    EVANS. 

HOME  SCENES. 

I2mo.     Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

This  Book  is  designed  to  aid  in  the  work  of  overcoming  what  is  eyil  and 
selfish,  that  home  lights  may  dispel  home  shadows. 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  BRIDE. 

I2mo.     Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 
This  is  a  powerfully  written  Book,  showing  the  folly  of  unequal  marriages. 


BIOGRAPHIES. 

LIFE  AND  EXPLORATIONS  OF  DR.  E.  K.  KANE, 

And  other  Distinguished  American  Explorers.  Including  Ledyard, 
Wilkes,  Perry,  &c.  Containing  narratives  of  their  researches 
and  adventures  in  remote  and  interesting  portions  of  the  Globe. 
By  SAMUEL  M.  SMUCKER,  LL.D.  With  a  fine  Mezzotint  Por 
trait  of  Dr.  Kane,  in  his  Arctic  Costume.  Price  $1.00. 

THE  LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON. 

By  S.  M.  SMUCKER,  LL.D.  Large  I2mo.,  with  Portrait.  Over 
400  pages.  Price  $1.25. 

THE  LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  THOMAS  JEFFERSON. 

By  S.  M.  SMUCKER,  LL.D.,  author  of  "Life  and  Reign  of  Nicho 
las  I.,  Emperor  of  Russia,"  &c.,  &c.  Large  I2mo.  of  400  pages. 
Cloth.  With  fine  Steel  Portrait.  Price  $1.25. 

THE  LIFE  AND  REIGN  OF  NICHOLAS  I., 

Emperor  of  Russia.  With  descriptions  of  Russian  Society  and 
Government,  and  a  full  and  complete  History  of  the  War  in 
the  East.  Also,  Sketches  of  Schamyl,  the  Circassian,  and  other 
Distinguished  Characters.  By  S.  M.  SMUCKER,  LL.D.  Beautifully 
Illustrated.  Over  400  pages,  large  1 2mo.  Price  $1.25. 

THE     PUBLIC     AND     PRIVATE     LIFE     OF     DANIEL 
WEBSTER. 

By  GEN.  S.  P.  LYMAN.      I2mo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 


LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY  G.    G.    EVANS. 


THE  MASTER  SPIRIT  OF  THE  AGE. 

THE  PUBLIC  AND  PRIVATE  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON 
THE  THIRD. 

With  Biographical  Notices  of  his  most  Distinguished  Ministers, 
Generals  and  Favorites.  By  S.  M.  SMUCKER,  LL.D.  This  in 
teresting  and  valuable  work  is  embellished  with  splendid  steel 
plates,  done  by  Sartain  in  his  best  style,  including  the  Emperor, 
the  Empress,  Queen  Hortense,  and  the  Countess  Castiglione. 
400  pages,  I2mo.  Price  $1.25. 

MEMOIRS  OF  ROBERT  HOUDIN, 

The  celebrated  French  Conjuror.  Translated  from  the  French. 
With  a  copious  Index.  By  DR.  R.  SHELTON  MACKENZIE.  This 
book  is  full  of  interesting  and  entertaining  anecdotes  of  the  great 
Wizard,  and  gives  descriptions  of  the  manner  of  performing 
many  of  his  most  curious  tricks  and  transformations.  I2mo., 
cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  CROCKETT. 

Written  by  himself,  with  Notes  and  Additions.  Splendidly  illus 
trated  with  engravings,  from  original  designs.  By  GEORGE  G. 
WHITE.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  DANIEL  BOONE. 

Including  an  account  of  the  Early  Settlements  of  Kentucky.  By 
CECIL  B.  HARTLEY.  With  splendid  illustrations,  from  original 
drawings  by  George  G.  White.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  LEWIS  WETZEL. 

Together  with  Biographical  Sketches  of  Simon  Kenton,  Benjamin 
Logan,  Samuel  Brady,  Isaac  Shelby,  and  other  distinguished 
Warriors  and  Hunters  of  the  West.  By  CECIL  B.  HARTLEY. 
With  splendid  illustrations,  from  original  drawings  by  George 
G.  White.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF   GENERAL  FRANCIS   MARION, 

The  Hero  of  the  American  Revolution  ;  giving  full  accounts  of 

his  many  perilous  adventures  and  hair-breadth  escapes  amongst 

the  British  and  Tories  in  the  Southern  States,  during  the  struggle 

for  liberty.    By  W.  GILMORE  SIMMS.     I2mo.,  cloth.    $1.00. 


6  LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.    G.    EVANS. 

LIFE  OF  GENERAL  SAMUEL  HOUSTON, 

The  Hunter,  Patriot,  and  Statesman  of  Texas.  With  nine  illus 
trations.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIVES    OF    GENERAL    HENRY   LEE    AND    GENERAL 
THOMAS    SUMPTER. 

Comprising  a  History  of  the  War  in  the  Southern  Department  of 
the  United  States.  Illustrated,  I2mo,  cloth.  $1.00. 

DARING  &  HEROIC  DEEDS  OF  AMERICAN  WOMEN. 

Comprising  Thrilling  Examples  of  Courage,  Fortitude,  Devoted- 
ness,  and  Self-Sacrifice,  among  the  Pioneer  Mothers  of  the 
Western  Country.  By  JOHN  FROST,  LL.D.  Price  $1.00. 

LIVES  OF  FEMALE  MORMONS. 

A  Narrative  of  facts  Stranger  than  Fiction.  By  METTA  VICTORIA 
FULLER.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIVES  OF  ILLUSTRIOUS  WOMEN  OF  ALL  AGES. 

Containing  the  Empress  Josephine,  Lady  Jane  Gray,  Beatrice 
Cenci,  Joan  of  Arc,  Anne  Boleyn,  Charlotte  Corday,  Zenobia, 
&c.,  &c.  Embellished  with  Fine  Steel  Portraits.  I2mo.,  cloth. 
Price  $1.00. 

THE  LIVES  AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  MOST  NOTED 
BUCCANEERS  &  PIRATES  OF  ALL  COUNTRIES. 

Handsomely  illustrated.      I  vol.     Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

HIGHWAYMEN,   ROBBERS   AND   BANDITTI   OF   ALL 
COUNTRIES. 

With  Colored  and  other  Engravings.  Handsomely  bound  in  one 
volume.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

HEROES  AND  PATRIOTS  OF  THE  SOUTH; 

Comprising  Lives  of  General  Francis  Marion,  General  William 
Moultrie,  General  Andrew  Pickens,  and  Governor  John 
Rutledge.  By  CECIL  B.  HARTLEY.  Illustrated,  I2mo.,  cloth. 
Price  $1.00. 


LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.    G.    EVANS. 


THE    PRINCE 


HOUSE   OF   DAVID; 

OR, 

THREE  YEARS  IN  THE  HOLY  CITY. 

BEING 

A  SERIES  OF  THE  LETTERS  OF  ADINA,  A  JEWESS  OF  ALEXANDRIA,  SUPPOSED 

TO    BE     SOJOURNING    IN    JERUSALEM    IN    THE    DAYS    OF    HEROD, 

ADDRESSED  TO  HER  FATHER,  A  WEALTHY  JEW  IN  EGYPT, 

AND  RELATING,  AS  IF  BY  AN  EYE-WITNESS, 

ALL  THE  SCENES  AND  WONDERFUL  INCIDENTS 


LIFE  OF  JESUS  OF  NAZARETH, 

FROM   HIS 

Baptism  in  Jordan  to  his  Crucifixion  on  Calvary. 

NEW  EDITION,  CAREFULLY  REVISED  AND  CORRECTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR,    ' 

REV.  J.  H.  INGRAHAM,  LL.D. 

Rector  of  Christ  Church,  and  af  St.  Thomas'1  Hall,  Holly  Sfrings,  Miss. 

WITH  FIVE  SPLENDID  ILLUSTRATIONS. 
ONE  LARGE   izmo.  VOLUME,  CLOTH,  $1.25. 


THE   SAME  WORK  IN   GERMAN.     One   volume    izmo., 
cloth.     PRICE  $1.00 


LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.    G.    EVANS. 


THE  PILLAR  OF  FIRE; 


OR, 


ISRAEL  IN  BONDAGE. 


BEING  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE 


WONDERFUL  SCENES  IN  THE    LIFE  OF  THE  SON 
OF  PHARAOH'S  DAUGHTER,  (MOSES.) 


TOGETHER   WITH 


PICTURESQUE  SKETCHES  OF  THE  HEBREWS  UNDER 
THEIR  TASK-MASTERS. 


BY  REV.  J.  H.  INGRAHAM,  LL.D., 

Author  of  tht  "Prirut  of  the  Houn  tf  David." 

PRICE,   $1.25. 


"THE  PILLAR  OF  FIRE,"  is  a  large  I2mo.  volume  of  600  pages, 
Illustrated,  and  contains  an  account  of  the  wonderful  scenes  in 
the  life  of  the  Son  of  Pharaoh's  Daughter,  (Moses,)  from  his  youth 
to  the  ascent  of  Sinai  :  comprising  as  by  an  eye-witness,  his 
Miracles  before  Pharaoh,  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea,  and  the  reception 
of  the  Law  on  Mount  Sinai,  &c.,  &c. 


LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BT  G.    G.    EVANS. 


RECORDS  OF  THE   REVOLUTIONARY  WAR. 

Containing  the  Military  and  Financial  Correspondence  of  distin 
guished  officers;  names  of  the  officers  and  privates  of  regiments, 
companies  and  corps,  with  the  dates  of  their  commissions  and 
enlistments.  General  orders  of  Washington,  Lee,  and  Green  ; 
with  a  list  of  distinguished  prisoners  of  war  ;  the  time  of  their 
capture,  exchange,  etc.  ;  to  which  is  added  the  half-pay  acts  of 
the  Continental  Congress  ;  the  Revolutionary  pension  laws  ;  and 
a  list  of  the  officers  of  the  Continental  army  who  acquired  the 
right  to  half-pay,  commutation,  and  lands,  &c.  By  T.  W.  SAF- 
FELL.  Large  izmo.,  $1.25. 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

Being  a  history  of  the  personal  adventures,  romantic  incidents  and 
exploits  incidental  to  the  War  of  Independence  —  with  tinted 
illustrations.  Large  I2mo.,  $1.25. 

THE  QUEEN'S  FATE. 

A  tale  of  the  days  of  Herod.  I2mo.,  cloth,  with  Steel  Illustra 
tions.  $1.00. 

"  A  recital  of  events,  of  an  awe-arousing  period,  in  a  familiar  and  interest 
ing  manner." 

"LIVING  AND  LOVING." 

A  collection  of  Sketches.  By  Miss  VIRGINIA  F.  TOWNSEND.  — 
Large  1  2mo.,  with  fine  steel  portrait  of  the  author.  Bound  in 
cluth.  Price  81.00. 

We  might  say  many  things  in  favor  of  this  delightful  publication,  but  we 
deem  it  unnecessary.  Husbands  should  buy  it  for  their  wives  :  lovers  should 
buy  it  for  their  sweet-hearts  :  friends  should  buy  it  for  their  friends.  —  Godey's 
Lady's  Book. 

WHILE  IT  WAS  MORNING. 

By    VIRGIMA    F.  TOWNSEND,    author    of  "  Living    and    Loving." 
.,  cloth.     Price  Si.  oo. 


THE  ANGEL  VISITOR  ;  OR,  VOICES  r?  THE  HEART. 
12010.,  cloth,  with  Mezzotint  Engraving.     Price  $1.00. 
"  The  mission  of  thig  volume  is  to  aid  in  doing  good  to  those  in  affliction." 


IO  LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    C.    G.    EVANS. 

THE  SPIRIT  LAND. 

I  zmo.,  cloth,  with  Mezzotint  Engraving.     Price  Si.oo. 

*  These  pages  are  submitted  to  the  public  with  the  counsel  of  the  wisest 
and  best  of  all  ages,  that  amid  the  wiley  arts  of  the  Adversary,  we  should  cling 
to  the  word  of  GOD,  the  Bible,  as  the  only  safe  and  infallible  guide  of  Faith 
and  Practice." 

THE  MORNING  STAR ;  OR,  SYMBOLS  OF  CHRIST. 

By  RE\    WM.  M.  THAYER,  author  of  "  Hints  for  the  Household," 
"  Pastor's  Holiday  Gift," &c.,  &c.      I2mo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"  The  symbolical  parts  of  Scriptures  are  invested  with  peculiar  attractions. 
A  familiar  acquaintance  with  them  «an  scarcely  fail  to  increase  respect  and 
love  for  the  Bible." 

SWEET  HOME ;  OR,  FRIENDSHIP'S  GOLDEN  ALTAR. 

By  FRANCES  C.  PERCIVAL.     Mezzotint  Frontispiece,  i  zmo.,  cloth, 
gilt  back  and  centre.     Price  $1.00. 

"The  object  of  this  book  is  to  awaken  the  Memories  of  Home — to  remind 
as  of  the  old  Scenes  and  old  Times." 

THE  DESERTED  FAMILY ; 

OR,  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  AN  OUTCAST.     By  PAUL  CREYTON.    I  zmo., 
c-loth.     Price  $1.00. 

"An  interesting  story,  which  might  exert  a  good  influence  in  softening  the 
heart,  warming  the  affections,  and  elevating  the  soul." 

ANNA    CLAYTON;    OR,  THE   MOTHER'S  TRIAL, 
A  Tale  of  Real  Life.      I2mo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"  The  principal  characters  in  this  tale  are  drawn  from  real  life — imagina 
tion  cannot  picture  deeper  shades  of  sadness,  higher  or  more  exquisjde  joys, 
than  Truth  has  woven  for  us,  in  the  Mother's  Trial." 

"  FASHIONABLE    DISSIPATION." 

By  METTA  V.  FULLER.     Mezzotint  Frontispiece,  I  zmo.,  bound  in 
cloth,     Price  $1.00. 

THE  YANKEE   SLAVE   DRIVER; 

OR,  THE  WHITE  AND  BLACK  RIVALS,     izmo.,  cloth,  Illustrated. 
Price  $1.00. 


LIST   OF   BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BT    O.  O.  EVANS.  1 1 

"  TO    THE    PURE    ALL    THINGS    ARE    PURE." 

WOMAN   AND   HER   DISEASES. 

From  the  Cradle  to  the  Grave  ;  adapted  exclusively  to  her  instruc 
tion  in  the  Physiology  of  her  system,  and  all  the  Diseases  of  her 
Critical  Periods.  By  EDWARD  H.  DIXON,  M.D.  I2mo.  Price 
$1.00. 

DR.  LIVINGSTONE'S  TRAVELS  AND  RESEARCHES 
OF  SIXTEEN  YEARS  IN  THE  WILDS  OF  SOUTH 
AFRICA. 

One  volume,  I2mo.,  cloth,  fine  edition,  printed  upon  superior 
paper,  with  numerous  ilkistrations.  Price  $1.25.  Cheap  edi- 
tien,  price  $1.00. 

This  is  a  work  of  thrilling  adventures  and  hair-breadth  escapes  among 
savage  beasts,  and  more  savage  men.  Dr.  Livingstone  was  alone,  and  unaid 
ed  by  any  white  man,  traveling  only  with  African  attendants,  among  different 
tribes  and  nations,  all  strange  to  him,  and  many  of  thorn  hostile,  and  alto 
gether  forming  the  most  astonishing  book  of  travels  the  world  has  ever 
Been.  All  acknowledge  it  is  the  most  readable  book  published. 

ANDERSSON'S   EXPLORATIONS  AND  DISCOVERIES. 

Giving  accounts  of  many  Perilous  Adventures,  and  Thrilling  Inci 
dents,  during  Four  Years'  Wanderings  in  the  Wilds  of  South 
Western  Africa.  By  C.  J.  AKDERSSON,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.  With 
an  Introductory  Letter,  by  J.  C.  FREMONT.  One  volume,  izmo., 
cloth.  With  Numerous  Illustrations,  representing  Sporting 
Adventures,  Subjects  of  Natural  History,  Devices  for  Destroy 
ing  Wild  Animals,  etc.  Price  $1.25. 

INDIA  AND  THE  INDIAN  MUTINY. 

Comprising  a  Complete  History  of  Hindoostan,  from  the  earliest 
times  to  the  present  day,  with  full  particulars  of  the  Recent 
Mutiny  in  Indk.  Illustrated  with  numerous  engravings.  By 
HENRY  FREDERICK  MALCOM.  This  work  has  been  gotten  up 
with  great  care,  and  may  be  relied  on  as  Complete  and  Accu 
rate  ;  making  one  of  the  most  Thrillingly  Interesting  books  pub 
lished.  It  contains  illustrations  of  all  the  great  Battles  and 
Sieges,  making  a  large  I2mo,,  volume  of  about  450  pages. 
Price  $1.25. 


12  LIST   OF   BOOKS    PUBLISHED   BT    G.  G.  ETANS. 

SEVEN  YEARS  IN  THE  WILDS  OF  SIBERIA, 

A  Narrative  of  Seven  Years'  Explorations  and  Adventures  in 
Oriental  and  Western  Siberia,  Mongolia,  the  Kir  his  Steppes, 
Chinese  Tartary,  and  Part  of  Central  Asia.  By  THOMAS 
WILLIAM  ATKINSON.  With  numerous  Illustrations,  izmo.,  cloth, 
price  $1.25. 

SIX  YEARS  IN  NORTHERN  AND  CENTRAL  AFRICA. 

Travels  and  Discoveries  in  North  and  Central  Africa,  being  a 
Journal  of  an  Expedition  undertaken  undei  the  auspices  of 
H.  B.  M.'s  Government,  in  the  years  1849-1855.  By  HENRY 
BARTH,  Ph.  D.,  D.C.L.,  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Geographical  and 
Asiatic  Societies,  &c.,  &c.  izmo.,  cloth,  price  61.25. 

THREE  VISITS  TO  MADAGASCAR 

During  the  years  1853,  1854,  1856,  including  a  journey  to  the 
Capital ;  with  notices  of  the  Natural  History  of  the  Country 
and  of  the  present  Civilization  of  the  People,  by  the  Rev.  WM. 
ELLIS,  F.H.S.,  author  of  "Polynesian  Researches."  Illustrated 
by  engravings  from  photographs,  &c.  I2mo.,  cloth.  $1.25. 

CAPT.  COOK'S  VOYAGES  ROUND  THE  WORLD. 
One  volume,  I2mo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

BOOK  OF  ANECDOTES  AND  BUDGET  OF  FUN. 

Containing  a  collection  of  over  One  Thousand  Laughable  Sayings, 
Rich  Jokes,  etc.  I2mo.,  cloth,  extra  gilt  back,  $1.00. 

"Nothing  is  so  well   calculated  to  preserve  the  healthful  action   of  the 
human  system  as  a  good  hearty  laugh." 

BOOK  OF  PLAYS  FOR  HOME  AMUSEMENT. 

Being  a  collection  of  Original,  Altered  and  well-selected  Tragedies, 
Comedies,  Dramas,  Farces,  Burlesques,  Charades,  Comic  Lec 
tures,  etc.  Carefully  arranged  and  specially  adapted  for  PRIVATE 
REPRESENTATION,  with  full  directions  for  Performance.  By  SILAS 
S.  STEELE,  Dramatist.  One  volume,  1 2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 


LIST    OF   BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY   G.    G.    EVANS.  13 

A  HISTORY  OF  ITALY, 

AND  THE  WAR  OF  1859. 

Giving  the  causes  of  the  War,  with  Biographical  Sketches  of  Sov 
ereigns,  Statesmen  and  Military  Commanders ;  Descriptions  and 
Statistics  of  the  Country ;  with  finely  engraved  Portraits  of  Louis 
Napoleon,  Emperor  of  France  Frances  Joseph,  Emperor  of 
Austria ;  Victor  Emanuel,  King  of  Sardinia,  and  Garribaldi,  the 
Champion  of  Italian  Freedom.  Together  with  the  official  ac 
counts  of  the  Battles  of  Montebello,  Palestro,  Magenta,  Maleg- 
nano,  Solferino,  etc.,  etc.,  and  Maps  of  Italy,  Austria,  and  all 
the  adjacent  Countries,  by 

MADAME  JULIE  DE  MARGUERITTES. 

With  an  introduction  by  Dr.  R.  SHELTON  MACKENZIE,  one  volume, 
I2mo.,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

From  the  New  York  Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"  This  is  an  able,  interesting  and  lively  account  of  the  War  and  the  circum 
stances  connected  with  it.  The  author's  residence  in  Europe  has  given  her 
facilities  for  preparing  the  volume  which  add  much  to  its  value. 

"Not  only  does  she  give  a  description  of  Italy  in  general,  but  of  each  Sov 
ereignty,  and  State,  showing  the  Extent,  Resources,  Power  and  Political  sit 
uation  of  each.  Throughout  the  volume  are  found  Anecdotes,  Recollections, 
and  even  Ondits,  which  contribute  to  its  interest." 

THE  BOOK  OF  POPULAR  SONGS. 

Being  a  compendium  of  the  best  Sentimental,  Comic,  Negro,  Nation 
al,  Patriotic,  Military,  Naval,  Social,  Convivial,  and  Pathetic 
Ballads  and  Melodies,  as  sung  by  the  most  celebrated  Opera 
Singers,  Negro  Minstrels,  and  Comic  Vocalists  of  the  day. 

One  volume,  I2mo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

THE  AMERICAN  PRACTICAL  COOKERY  BOOK; 

Or,  Housekeeping  made  easy,  pleasant,  and  econmical  in  all  its 
departments.  To  which  are  added  directions  for  setting  out 
Tables,  and  giving  Entertainments.  Directions  for  Jointing, 
Trussing,  and  Carving,  and  many  hundred  new  Receipts  in 
Cookery  and  Housekeeping.  With  50  engravings.  I2mo., 
cloth.  Price  $1.00. 


14  UST    Or    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BT  G.    G.    ETAWS. 

A  BUDGET  OF 

HUMOROUS   POETRY, 

COMPRISING 

Specimens  of  the  best  and  most  Humorous  Productions  of  the 
popular  American  and  Foreign  Poetical  Writers  of  the  day. 
By  the  author  of  the  "  BOOK  OF  ANECDOTES  AND  BUDGET  OF 
FUN."  One  volume,  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

From  the  Philadelphia  North.  American. 

"  This  collection  includes  specimens  of  the  Humorous  Writings  of  English 
and  American  authors,  und  the  preference  is  given  to  contemporaries.  The 
compiler  has  aimed  to  produce  a  volume  in  which  every  piece  should  provoke 
'a  good  hearty  laugh.'  In  one  thing  he  has  certainly  shown  a  wisdom  which 
might  be  imitated  by  compilers  of  more  pretension.  He  does  not  claim  that  hii 
work  represents  the  '  entire  humorous  literature  of  the  language,'  but  a  eol- 
lectii>n  of  poetical  effusions,  replete  with  wit  and  humor." 


THE 

The  World  in  a  Pocket  Book. 

BY 

WILLIAM    H.    CRUMP. 

• 

NEW      AND     REVISED    EDITION,     BROUGHT     DOWN     TO 

1860. 

This  work  is  a  Compendium  of  Useful  Knowledge  and  General 
Reference,  dedicated  to  the  Manufacturers,  Farmers,  Merchants, 
and  Mechanics  of  the  United  States — to  all,  in  short,  with  whom 
time  is  money — and  whose  business  avocations  render  the  acqui 
sition  of  extensive  and  diversified  information  desirable,  by  the 
shortest  possible  road.  This  volume,  it  is  hoped,  will  be  found 
worthy  of  a  place  in  every  household — in  every  family.  It 
may  indeed  be  termed  a  library  in  itself.  Large  izmo.,  $1.25. 


LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.    G.    EVANS.  1 5 

THE 

LADIES'  HAND  BOOK 

OF 

FANCY    AND    ORNAMENTAL 

NEEDLE-WORK, 

COMPRISING 

FULL   DIRECTIONS   WITH   PATTERNS 

FOR    WORKING    IN 

Embroidery,  Applique,  Braiding,  Crochet,  Knitting,  Netting, 

Tatting,  Quilting,  Tambour  and   Gobelin  Tapestry, 

Broderie  Anglaise,  Guipure  Work,  Canvass  Work, 

Worsted  Work,  Lace  Work,  Bead  Work, 

Stitching,  Patch  Work,  Frivolite, 

etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

ILLUSTRATED  WITH  262  ENGRAVED  PATTERNS, 

TAKEN  FROM  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS. 

BY   MISS   FLORENCE   HARTLEY. 


ONE  VOLUME,  QUARTO  CLOTH,  PRICK  $1.85. 


1 6  LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.    G.    EVANS. 


LECTURES  for  the  PEOPLE: 


REV.  H.  STOWELL  BROWN, 

Of  the  Myrtlt  Strift  Baptist  Chafel,  Livtrfvel,  England. 


FIRST    SERIES, 

PUBLISHED  UNDER  A  SPECIAL  ARRANGEMENT  WITH  THE  AUTHOR. 


WITH   A  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION  BT 

DR.  R.  SHELTON   MACKENZIE. 

WITH  A  SPLENDIDLY  ENGRAVED  STEEL  PORTRAIT. 
One  Voluma,  414  pages,  lamo.  Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 


CONTENTS  OF       LECTURES  FOR  THE  PEOPLE. 


1  The  Lord's  Prayer. 

2  The  Golden  Rule. 

3  The  Prodigal  Son.  • 

4  There's  a  good  time  coming. 

5  Turning  over  a  new  leaf. 


1 1  Saturday  Night. 

12  There's  nae  Luck  about  the 

House. 

13  The  road  to   Hell   is  paved 

with  good  Intentions. 


6  Taking  care  of  Number  One.  j  14  Poor  Richard's  Almanac. 

7  Penny    Wise  and  Pound  i  15   Waste  not,  Want  not. 

Foolish.  1 6  Tell  the  Truth  and  Shame 

8  Cleanliness  is  next  to   God-  I  the  Devil. 

liness.  1 7  The  Seventh  Commandment. 

9  A  Friend  in  need  is  a  Friend     18—19  The  Street. 

Indeed.  !  20  Stop  Thief. 

10   Five  Shillings  and  Costs.          ;  21    The  Devil's  Meal  is  all  Bran. 

Mr.  Brown's  lectures  fill  an  important  place,  for  wnich  we  have  no  other 
book.  The  style  is  clear,  the  spirit  is  kind,  the  reasoning  careful,  ami  the 
argument  conclusive.  We  are  persuaded  that  this  book  will  render  more 
good  than  any  book  of  sermons  or  Iscturei  that  Luve  been  publiihed  in  this 
19th  ««ntury. — Livtrpool  Mtreury. 


LIST    OF   BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.  G.  EVANS.  IJ 

LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OF  A  PASTOR'S  LIFE. 
By  S.  H.  ELLIOTT.     One  volume,   izmo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"  This  is  a  well-written,  highly  instructive  book.  It  is  a  story  of  the  life- 
teachings,  and  life-trials  of  a  good  man,  whose  great  aim  was  to  elevate, 
morally  and  intellectually,  his  fellow-men.  Like  many  of  his  nature  and 
temperament,  some  of  his  views  were  Utopian.  But  his  successes  and 
failures,  with  the  causes  of  these,  are  painted  with  a  masterly  hand.  There 
is  unusual  strength  and  vitality  in  this  volume." 

THREE   PER   CENT.  A  MONTH; 

OR,  THE   PERILS  OF  FAST   LIVING.     A  Warning  to  Young  Men. 
By  CHAS.  BURDETT.    One  volume,  izmo.,  cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

"The  style  of  tiiis  book  is  direct  and  effective,  particularly  fitting  the 
impression  which  such  a  story  should  make.  It  is  a  very  spirited  and  in 
structive  tale,  leaving  a  good  impression  both  upon  the  reader's  sensibilities 
and  morals." 

EVENINGS  AT   HOME; 

OR,  TALES   FOR  THE  FIRESIDE.      By  JANB   C.  CAMPBELL.      One 
volume,  I2mo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"  We  know  of  no  book  in  the  whole  range  of  modem  fictitious  literature 
we  would  sooner  select  for  a  delightful  and  instructive  companion." 

RURAL   LIFE; 

OR,  PROSE  AND  POETRY  OF  THE  WOODS  AND  FIELDS.     By  HARRY 
PENCILLER.     One  voltfme,  cloth,   izmo.      Price  $1.00. 

"  Beautiful  landscapes,  family  scenes  and  conversations,  rural  sketches  of 
woods  and  vales,  of  the  beauties  of  verdant  fields  and  fragrant  flowers,  of 
the  music  of  birds  and  running  brooks,  all  described  in  an  original  and  un 
studied  manner,  which  cannot  fail  to  delight  every  one  whose  character  is 
imbued  with  a  love  of  nature." 

JOYS   AND   SORROWS   OF   HOME; 

AN   AUTOBIOGRAPHY.     By  ANNA  LELAND.     One  volume,  izmo., 
cloth.     Price  $1.00 

"This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  domestic  stories  we  have  ever  read, 
Intensely  interesting,  with  a  natural  flow  and  easiness  which  leads  the  reader 
imperceptibly  on  to  the  close,  and  then  leaves  a  regret  that  the  tal«  is  done." 

2* 


1 8  LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BT  G.    G.    EVANS. 


BEAUTY   OF   WOMAN'S   FAITH; 

A  TALE  OF  SOUTHERN  LIFE.     One  volume,  izmo.,  cloth.      Price 
$i  oo. 

"  This  volume  contains  the  story  of  a  French  Emigrant,  who  first  escaped 
to  England,  and  afterward  settled  on  a  plantation  in  Louisiana.  It  is  charm 
ingly  told,  and  the  strength,  and  endurance  of  woman's  faith  well  illustrated." 

THE    ORPHAN    BOY; 

OR,  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OF  NORTH-ERN  LIFE.     By  JEREMT  LOUD. 
One  volume,  izmo.,  cloth.     Price  §1.00. 

"This  is  a  work  illustrating  the  passions  and  pleasures,  the  trials  and  tri 
umphs  of  common  life;  it  is  well  written  and  the  interest  is  admirably  sus 
tained." 

THE    ORPHAN    GIRLS; 

A  TALE  OF  LIFE  IN  THE  SOUTH.     By  JAMES  S.  PEACOCK,  M.D., 
of  Mississippi.     One  volume,  izmo.,  cloth.     Price  §1.00. 

"The  style  is  fluent  and  unforced,  the  description  of  character  well  limned, 
and  the  pictures  of  scenery  forcible  and  felicitous.  There  is  a  natural  con 
veyance  of  incidents  to  the  denouement,  and  the  reader  closes  the  volume  with 
an  increased  regard  for  the  talent  and  spirit  of  tho  author." 

NEW    ENGLAND    BOYS; 

OR,  THE  THREE  APPRENTICES.     By  A.  L.  STIMSON.     One  volume, 
I2mo.,  Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"  This  is  a  very  agreeable  book,  written  in  a  dashing  independent  style.  Tho 
incidents  are  numerous  and  striking,  the  characters  life-like,  and  the  plot 
sufficiently  captivating  to  enchain  the  reader's  attention  to  tho  end  of  tho 
volume." 

THE    KING'S   ADVOCATE; 

OR,  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  WITCH  FINDER.     One  volume,  i  zmo., 
cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  book  so  thoroughly  excellent,  so  exalted  in  its  character,  so  full 
of  exquisite  pictures  of  society,  and  manifesting  so  much  genius,  skill,  and 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  that  no  one  can  possibly  read  it  without  admit 
ting  it  to  be,  in  every  way,  a  noble  book.  The  story,  too,  is  one  of  stirring 
interest;  and  it  either  sweeps  you  along  with  its  powerful  spell,  *c  beguiles 
you  with  its  tenderness,  pathos  and  geniality." 


LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.    G.    EVANS.  19 

SIBYL  MONROE;  OR,  THE  FORGER'S  DAUGHTER. 
By  MARTHA  RUSSELL.      One  volume,  I2mo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"  It  is  a  spirited,  charming  story,  full  of  adventure,  friendship  and  love,  with 
characters  nicely  drawn  and  carefully  discriminated.  The  clear  style  and 
spirit  with  which  the  story  is  presented  and  the  characters  developed,  will 
attract  a  large  constituency  to  the  perusal." 

THE    OPEN    BIBLE; 

As  shown  in  the  History  of  Christianity,  from  the  time  of  our 
Saviour  to  the  Present  Day.  By  VINCENT  W.  MILLNER.  With 
a  view  of  the  latest  developments  of  Rome's  hostility  to  the 
Bible,  as  exhibited  in  the  Sandwich  Islands,  in  Tuscany,  in 
Ireland,  France,  &c.,  and  an  expose  of  the  absurdities  of  the 
Immaculate  Conception,  and  the  Idolatrous  Veneration  of  the 
Virgin  Mary.  By  REV.  JOSEPH  F.  BERG,  D.  D.,  author  of 
"The  Jesuits,"  "Church  and  State,"  &c.,  &c.  Illustrated  with 
numerous  Engravings,  izmo.,  cloth,  gilt  back.  Price  $1.00. 

LIFE  OF  CHRIST  AND  HIS  APOSTLES. 

By  the  REV.  JOHN  FLEETWOOD.     With  a  History  of  the  Jews,  from 
the  Earliest  Period  to  the  Present  Time.     Large  I2mo.,  bound 
in    Cloth.      Illustrated.      Price    $1.00. 
Octavo  editien,  with  steel  engravings.      Turkey  Antique,  $3.50. 

BUNYAN'S    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS. 

Including,  "Grace  abounding  to  the  Chief  of  Sinners."  Large 
1 2tno.,  500  pages.  Cloth.  Beautifully  Illustrated.  Price$i.oo. 
Octavo  edition,  with  steel  engravings.  Turkey  Antique,  $3.50. 

SCRIPTURE   EMBLEMS   AND   ALLEGORIES.. 

Being  a  series  of  Emblematic  Engravings,  with  explanations  and 
religious  reflections,  designed  to  illustrate  Divine  Truth.  By 
REV,  W.  HOLMES,  izmo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.25. 

HOME    MEMORIES; 
OR,  SOCIAL  HALF  HOURS  WITH  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

Octavo,  400  pages.     Illustrated  with  fine    steel  plates.     Ctoth, 
Price    $2.00.     Turkey  Antique,  $3.50. 


2O  LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    C.  G.  ErANS. 

EVANS'  POPULAR  SPEAKER, 
LYCEUM    AND   SCHOOL    EXHIBITION    DECLAIMER. 

Comprising  a  Treatise  on  Elocution  and  Gesture,  with  Illustrations, 
and  a  choice  collection  of  pieces  in  Prose  and  Verse,  and  selec.. 
Dialogues,  specially  adapted  for  School  and  Lyceum  Exhibitions, 
and  Private  Representations.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

PANORAMA  OF  THE  OLD  WORLD  AND  THE  NEW; 

Comprising  a  view  of  the  present  state  of  the  Nations  of  the  World, 
their  Names,  Customs  and  Peculiarities,  and  their  Political, 
Moral,  Social  and  Industrial  Condition.  Interspersed  with 
Historical  Sketches  and  Anecdotes.  By  WILLIAM  PINNCCK, 
author  of  the  Histories  of  England,  Greece  and  Rome.  Enlarged, 
revised  and  embellished  with  several  hundred  Engravings, 
including  twenty-four  finely  colored  Plates,  from  designs  by 
Croome,  Devereux,  and  other  distinguished  artists.  In  one  vol. 
Octavo,  over  600  pages,  bound  in  embossed  morocco,  gilt  back. 
Price  $2.75. 

GREAT    EVENTS    IN    MODERN    HISTORY. 

Comprising  the  most  remarkable  Discoveries,  Conquests,  Revolu 
tions,  Great  Battles  and  other  Thrilling  Incidents,  chiefly  in 
Europe  and  America,  from  the  commencement  of  the  Sixteenth 
Century  to  the  Present  Time.  By  JOHN  FROST,  LL.D.  Embel 
lished  with  over  500  engravings,  by  Croome  and  other  eminent 
artists.  With  a  Map  of  the  World,  20  by  25  inches,  with  side 
Maps  of  California,  Oregon,  Hungary,  Austrian  Dominions,  &c. 
Royal  Octavo  over  800  pages,  bound  in  embossed  morocco, 
gilt  back.  Price  §3.00. 

HUNTING  SCENES  IN  THE  WILDS  OF  AFRICA. 

Comprising  the  Thrilling  Adventures  of  Gumming,  Harris,  and 
other  daring  Hunters  of  Lions,  Elephants,  Giraffes,  Buffaloes, 
and  other  Animals.  With  Illustrations.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Gilt 
back.  Price  $1.00. 


LIST   OF   BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    G.    G.    EVANS.  21 


THE  BATTLE  FIELDS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

Comprising  descriptions  of  the  Different  Battles,  Sieges,  and  other 
Events  of  the  War  of  Independence.  Interspersed  with  Char 
acteristic  Anecdotes.  Illustrated  with  numerous  Engravings, 
and  a  fine  Mezzotint  Frontispiece.  By  THOMAS  Y.  RHOADS. 
Large  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.25. 

PERILS  AND  PLEASURES  OF  A  HUNTER'S  LIFE. 

With  fine  colored  plates.     Large  I2mo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.25. 
From  the  table  of  contents  we  take  the  following  as  samples  of 
the  style  and  interest  of  the  work  : 

Baiting  for  an  Alligator — Morning  among  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains — Encounter  with  Shoshonees — A  Grizzly  Bear — Fight 
and  terrible  result — Fire  on  the  Mountains — Narrow  Escape 
— The  Beaver  Region — Trapping  Beaver — A  Journey  and 
Hunt  through  New  Mexico — Start  for  South  America — Hunt 
ing  in  the  Forests  of  Brazil — Hunting  on  the  Pampas — A  Hunt 
ing  Expedition  into  the  interior  of  Africa — Chase  of  the  Rhinoc 
eros — Chase  of  an  Elephant — The  Roar  of  the  Lion — Herds  of 
Wild  Elephants — Lions  attacked  by  Bechuanas — Arrival  in  the 
Region  of  the  Tiger  and  the  Elephant — Our  first  Elephant  Hunt 
in  India — A  Boa  Constrictor — A  Tiger — A  Lion — Terrible 
Conflict — Elephant  Catching — Hunting  the  Tiger  with  Ele 
phants — Crossing  the  Pyrenees — Encounter  with  a  Bear — A 
Pigeon  Hunt  on  the  Ohio — A  Wild  Hog  Hunt  in  Texas — 
Hunting  the  Black-tailed  Deer. 

THRILLING   ADVENTURES  AMONG   THE   INDIANS. 

By  JOHN  FROST,  LL.D.  Comprising  the  most  remarkable  Personal 
Narratives  of  Events  in  the  Early  Indian  Wars,  as  well  as  of 
Incidents  in  the  recent  Indian  Hostilities  in  Mexico  and  Texas. 
Illustrated  with  over  300  engravings,  from  designs  by  W.  Croome, 
and  other  distinguished  artists.  It  contains  over  500  pages. 
I2mo.,  cloth.  Gilt  back,  $1.25. 

PIONEER  LIFE  IN  THE  WEST. 

Comprising  the  Adventures  of  Boone,  Kenton,  Brady,  Clarke,  the 
Whetzels,  and  others,  in  their  Fierce  Encounters  with  the 
Indians.  With  Illustrations,  I2mo.,  cloth.  Gilt  back.  Price 
$1.00. 


22  LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    C.    G.    EVANS. 


McCULLOUGH'S  TEXAN  RANGERS. 

The  Scouting  Expedition  of  McCullough's  Texan  Rangers,  inclu 
ding  Skirmishes  with  the  Mexicans,  and  an  accurate  detail  of 
the  Storming  of  Monterey,  &c.,  with  Anecdotes,  Incidents  and 
Description  of  the  Country,  and  Sketches  of  the  lives  of  Hays, 
McCullough  and  Walker.  By  S.  C.  REID,  JR.,  of  Louisiana,  late 
of  the  Texan  Rangers.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

THE  DOOMED  CHIEF. 

OR,  Two  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO.  A  Narrative  of  the  Earliest 
Border  Warfare.  By  D.  B.  THOMPSON,  author  of  "  Gaut 
Gurley,"  &c.  I2mo.,  cloth.  $1.00. 

HUNTING  SPORTS  IN  THE  WEST. 

Containing  Adventures  of  the  most  celebrated  Hunters  and  Trap 
pers  of  the  West.  Illustrated  with  new  designs.  1 2mo.,  cloth. 

Si. 00. 

GAUT  GURLEY ; 

OR,  THE  TRAPPERS  OF  UMBAGOG.  A  Tale  of  Border  Life.  By  D. 
B.  THOMPSON,  author  of  "  The  Rangers ;  or,  the  Tory's  Daugh 
ter,"  "Green  Mountain  Boys,"  &c.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

THE  RECOLLECTIONS  OF   A  SOUTHERN   MATRON. 

By  MRS.  CAROLINE  GILMAN,  of  South  Carolina.  1 2mo.,  cloth. 
Price  $1.00. 

"This  volume  is  one  of  those  books  which  are  read  by  all  classes  at  all 
stages  of  life,  with  an  interest  which  looses  nothing  by  change  or  circum 
stances." 

THE  ENCHANTED  BEAUTY. 

AND  OTHER  TALES  AND  ESSAYS.     By  DR.  WM.  ELDER.      I2mo., 

cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"  This  is  a  volume  of  beautiful  and  cogent  essays,  Tirtuous  in  motive,  simple 
in  expression,  pertinent  and  admirable  in  logic,  and  glorious  in  conclusion 
and  climax." 

THE  CHILD'S  FAIRY  BOOK. 

By  SPENCER  W.  CONE.  Containing  a  choice  collection  of  beauti- 
fnl  Fairy  Tales.  Illustrated  with  Ten  Beautiful  Engravings, 
Splendidly  Colored,  izmo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBBARJ '  FAC  LITY 


A     000  093  086     7 


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